


Leave No Soul Behind

by whochick



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 258,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whochick/pseuds/whochick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you're Starfleet, you spend your whole life wishing you never see an EPAS uniform right up until the moment they become your only hope. Whether you're dying a slow, cold death in space, or a long painful one on some godforsaken planet, they're going to come for you. So count your last breaths, son, and hold on tight. They leave no soul behind.</p>
<p>EDIT: Amazing trailer made by Тигр Бумажный :http://youtu.be/9mn8Cxju070</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stripedpetunia (waketosleep)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waketosleep/gifts).



Stardate 2259 - Year One Post Vulcan-that-was 

On the large, slightly ovoid world of Vega, the morning sun inches over the horizon.  It makes a feeble attempt to burn through the many layers of cloud, but it is too early for its rays to strike the heaving oceans and transform them from steely grey to dappled blue and green.  The sea is high and the weather windy.  White spray leaps from the top of each crest to sting and hiss across the uneven peaks, like sand across a desert and just as painful.

The Vegans have a legend among their kind.  It speaks of beings that live in the ocean.  Unlike the human mermaid mythos, these water angels sing no siren song to call souls into the dark embrace of death.  Far from it.  They are said to flock towards the drowning, providing buoyancy, succour and support.  The Vegans swear that in the water, no one dies alone.

Of course, whilst Commander Spock appreciates the contextual significance of myth, he does not believe in fairy tales.

He treads water, his breath comes harsh in his ears, filled with the echoes of his own skull created by the insulating membrane worn like a wetsuit against his skin.  Above him, the medevac shuttle gains eighty clicks in altitude, hovering above him at a distance of approximately one hundred and two point seven klicks.  It lessens the spray around him to be out of their downdraft and increases visibility to the point where he can see Starfleet officers clinging desperately to the wreckage of their escape pod.

His face is a perfect mask of concentration, but water is not his element.  He is bred for the desert, was born in the desert, became the desert.  Spock is all air and heat and dust.  He has never seen so much water in one place before.  His disciplined mind automatically acknowledges that the press of it around his body is distinctly unsettling, its pull on his limbs almost frightening.  The emotions slide into place like pieces in a puzzle.  They are labelled.  Recognised.  Controlled.  They do not intrude.

He strikes out strongly in the swell, his lean body cutting through the waves just like it did in the training pool.  He raises his face now and takes a breath, but only when even his efficient Vulcan lungs demand it.  Every pause lessens his forward momentum by a measurable degree.  The victims wear only standard issue uniforms.  They are not designed to capture body heat during prolonged periods of immersion.  Based on their projected time of splashdown, he had calculated a forty eight point six percent chance that humans would have already have succumbed to hypothermia by the time EPAS had arrived.

He slaps his hand closed over the ignition point on a flare.  It ignites brightly against the stormy water, hurts his sensitive eyes.  Ahead through the chaotic noise and towering waves he catches a glimpse of a human arm raised in acknowledgement.  This sight elicits another emotional response from him.  Satisfaction, his brain proclaims abstractly.  They are still alive.

Spock slows as he approaches the jagged durasteel edge of their makeshift life raft.  The swell pushes him up, holds him several feet higher than his goal so that he looks down upon them with a bird's eye view.  One of the huddled bodies raises a hand in welcome, five fingers spread in a desperate yet triumphant expression of humanity.  Spock raises his own in return, hardly noticing when his fingers part down the middle, approximating a greeting of similar meaning.  _Health and long life,_ he thinks, then realises he'd been in the water too long and his thought processes are suffering.

"EPAS!" he shouts over the gale as he hauls himself up onto the shifting wreckage.  "What is your number?"

The human who is conscious reaches out and grips his forearm in a mutually-steadying clasp.  "Only three."

Spock reaches out to tag both the speaker and his unconscious companions for beaming.  The transponders blink steadily, signalling their functionality.  It is possible the unconscious crewmembers are actually dead, but such assessment does not fall within his jurisdiction.  Certainly, this one looks very much alive, despite the crimson blood cascading down his young face.

"Did we win?" the human bellows, coughing up seawater as they are broadsided by yet another wave.

"Irrelevant," Spock snaps, working with his phaser to cut the unconscious men free of the jury-rigged lashing.  The binding is a rushed job, but it is surprisingly secure.  Spock finds himself impressed by the human's apparent presence of mind.  He has certainly met enough of his mother's people to realise that such functionality under extreme stress is uncommon.

"Bullshit!" the man shouts.  "Those are my friends up there, fighting and dying!"

Spock raises his head, eyes narrow against the biting spray.  The human, a lowly ensign by the stripes on his cuffs, is facing him with determination, blue eyes flashing with passion even in the low morning light.  It is clear that Spock has overlooked the issue of emotional distress.  His experience with non-Vulcan culture is still limited.  If he was prone to apologies, he might have offered one, instead he merely positions the unconscious two for transportation.

"Hey, EPAS, I asked you a question!" the ensign presses, his grip surprisingly strong on Spock's upper arm.

Spock shoots him a measured glance and decides this man is capable of processing the truth.  Besides, he has neither the stomach or the time for prevarication.   "Federation forces are in full retreat from theLaurentian System," he admits.  "Only EPAS remains."

The human's face contorts in a disturbing mixture of shock and anger.  Spock looks away, focuses on the tasks at hand.  He knows that the main transporter unit will be used for the survivors, taking them directly to the orbiting starship.  He will be beamed to the cramped auxiliary unit in the shuttle.  He crouches.  He has no desire to underestimate his height.

"This is Point Two," Spock articulates clearly, depressing the patch on this collar that holds his sensitive micro-communicator.

The accompanying earpiece crackles and comes to life inside his membrane hood.

_One, this is niner niner six, over._

"I have three to beam up, repeat, three to beam up ... energise!"

The stinging spray and heaving ocean disappear in a tingling blur of whirling light and then Spock is back on the shuttle.  The crash of a wave hangs suspended around him for a split second as the field disintegrates, then hits the pad with a wet slap.  Strong hands grip his numb arms, hauling him off his haunches and over to the tinymedbay .  Spock attempts to assist in the removal of his membrane suit but his shaking hands are more of a hindrance than anything else.  He is all at once too heavy.  It is as if his body, long parched from his childhood, has soaked up as much of Vega as it could during its brief exposure.  He is weighed down, crushed by the cold and the wet.  He staggers.

"Quit making my job harder, damn you!" an irascible voice exclaims.  "Blasted suicidal, green-blooded hobgoblin!  Didn't you hear Pike?"  

Spock glances up at the crazy-eyed face that has been thrust demandingly into his field of view.  "M-m-manual extrac-tions are con-con-conducted at the discretion of the s-s-senior officer on the sc-scene, Doctor m-m-McCoy," he manages between chattering teeth.  In truth, he had not realised how dangerously low his body temperature had fallen.

"You moron!" McCoy grouses, giving him a cursory towelling and then stuffing him into a thermal bag.  "You pull something like that again and you can bet your pointy ears that Pike is going to _m-m-manually_ extract something of yours!"

Spock says nothing, simply allows his eyes close.  He is overwhelmed by the combined pleasure and pain in his limbs as his circulation begins to reassert itself.  His ability to control and suppress is inhibited by his physical state.  Not even the sting of McCoy's hypo can rouse him to full awareness.  He feels the pull of gravity as the medevac shuttle's inertial dampeners fail to compensate for their pilot's enthusiastic exit from the scene.  He half-hears McCoy curse under his breath, followed by the heavy tread of boots.

"What are you trying to do, Uhura?" the doctor demands, his voice getting further and further away, "give me a heart attack?  Did you pass your pilot's license or just bat your pretty eyelashes and hope to heaven you'd never actually have to fly one of these things?"  

A shudder rocks the shuttle and Spock's head lolls from side to side with it.  Uhura's tart reply is lost in the static that fills his ears.  He licks his chapped lips and tastes salt, tart like the smell of human blood.  Momentary nausea assails him, but he is already slipping into a healing trance, the wreckage of the starship _Enterprise_ sinking into Vega's wild seas, into the waiting arms of water angels.

In the moment before unconsciousness, Spock's lips twitch in a fleeting smile, but there is no one there to see it.


	2. chapter 1.1

James T. Kirk feels like a fish out of water.  Fair enough, it isn't exactly new, but it never loses its edge.  Twelve months prior, he'd made a decision based on gut instinct, grief and a healthy dose of Argellian schnapps.  He isn't about to back out now, even if the slightly run down feel of EPAS headquarters on Luna makes him wince.  It's so far from the gleaming white interior of the Federation's finest, he might as well have signed up on a freighter or a barge.  He wouldn't have had to bust his ass for twenty three weeks to get here, only to find that the sign says _Emergen_y Personnel Am__lance Service_ , because several lights are out.  He knows these guys are badly funded, but for goodness sake!

He approaches the desk and makes a polite noise in the back of his throat.  The receptionist looks up with a paint-by-numbers smile and he holds out his thumb to be scanned.  She rolls it across the pad deftly and glances at her HUD.

"Lieutenant Kirk, please take a seat.  Admiral Pike with be with you shortly."

Jim does as he's told, wrinkling his nose as his dress uniform creases and shifts in uncomfortable ways.  At least that's one thing he can look forward to being rid of.  The EPAS wardrobe consists of simple black slacks, crew neck and overshirt.  The only drawback is the photosensitive siding on the field uniforms, but he can learn to live with glowing in the dark like some kind of nasty freshman disco if it means never having to deal with a collar like this one again.

"Kirk," comes Pike's crisp voice.

Jim shoots to his feet, surprised to see the Admiral has wobbled out on his calipers to usher him inside.  He'd been wondering how, or indeed if, he should tackle the issue of Pike's injuries or gloss over them.  Apparently the man has no intention of hiding it, because he raps one of his canes against the slim metal supports with a jarring clang.

"Darned unphotogenic, aren't they?" he asks, making painful progress around his desk and flopping into a high-backed chair.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Admiral," Jim slips effortlessly into his natural charm.  "I bet the chicks go crazy for them."

Pike rolls his eyes and gestures at the other chair.  "Shut your big mouth, Kirk, before my wife hears you."

"That's your wife?" he demands, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the wall that separates them from Pike's attractive secretary.  "Man, you gotta lend me those sometime."

"I said put a lid on it," Pike snaps, but his eyes are dancing.

"Aye, sir."

Pike shuffles flimsies for a moment, tapping them on the desk until their corners lined up perfectly.  Kirk takes the opportunity to deliberately not fidget while he waits.  Yeah, he sucks at this not fidgeting thing.

"So what they hell are you doing here?  The last I heard from Winona was that you'd been reassigned to the _Potemkin_ after that fracas with the _Enterprise_ ," Pike opens, apropos of nothing, letting the plastic sheets fall to his desk with a crisp whisper.

"Uh ..."  Jim fumbles, realizing it isn't the most intelligent thing he can say, but finding himself completely broadsided.  He's known Pike half his life, although that's not quite how it sounds.  It's more that Pike has been in and out of his life just about as much as his mother.   

"Come on Jim, I'm waiting."

"I'm here to be assigned to an EPAS team?"

Pike waves an irritated hand at him.  "Oh, I know all that, son.  But you're a Kirk, you're George's son!" he exclaims.  "You were there at the fall of Vulcan, you crippled the Narada's main weapon, for chrissakes.  Why the hell are you sitting in that chair instead of one of your own on the bridge of a starship, somewhere?  God knows the Admirality busted my balls hard enough when they heard I'd let you into basic."

Ah.  That. 

"It's kind of hard to explain," he begins, some of the bravado leaching away.

"Try me."

"Alright," Kirk forces out past his pained smile.  "Sure, I've been involved in my share of success against Nero and his men ..."

"Vulcan, Leridia, Circus, Vega ..." Pike counts them off on his fingers, "and don't think for a second that I haven't read the mission reports.  You might not have been in the center seat, but those were _your_ tactics, Jim."

"Leridia you might count as a win," Kirk allows, "but we got decimated at Circus and Vega, not to mention the fact that Vulcan _disappeared in a black hole_ , sir."

Pike frowns heavily but apparently decides not to argue.  "The Fleet are doing good work out there."

"...Right."

"Okay then, lay it on me." Pike waves his hand in the universal gesture for 'permission to speak freely is granted.'

"Can't you see that Starfleet are screwing themselves over?  They're floundering about like a pack of morons rather than kicking Nero's ass.  You've got one crazy Romulan acting like a schoolyard bully, beating around the universe with a big stick and what do Fleet do?  They just look for a bigger stick when what they should be doing is turning the tables on him.  They're throwing good ideas after bad and it's the enlisted folk who are bleeding and dying over it.  I'm sick of being stuck between a rock and a stupid place," Kirk finishes up red in the face, then takes a deep breath and adds, "sir."

A sad smile flickers across the Admiral's face and he leans back in his chair. Looking at him across the desk like that, there is no discernible trace of his injuries, nothing to say that he isn't capable of getting up, grabbing Jim by the shirt and giving him a good old shake.  Jim thinks it was quite an accomplishment that the Admiral manages to make him feel like it's happened without moving a muscle.  But then, this is Christopher Pike, after all.   Kirk has grown up on stories of his exploits.  He remembers the days before his accident, can't forget the way he used to turn up on the doorstep and take the spare room, always sporting new bruises and a tired, satisfied smile. 

There's a reason some 'Fleet crewmen call a near death experience 'getting Piked.'  The man had more saves to his name than seemed rational or plausible.

"Sounds to me like you're exactly the kind of young officer Fleet could afford to have a few more of."  Pike hedges, frowning darkly.

"Sir," Kirk tries again, feeling like he's on the cusp of figuring out for himself why he's there. "I don't know what to tell you."

The two men stare at each other intently for a moment, then Pike sighs and purses his lips.  "Well, I don't know what to do with you," he counters.  "Fleet are breathing down my neck, wondering what the heck a fine young officer like you is doing abandoning the command path in a time of war.  You're damned lucky they didn't veto your request for transfer and conscript you."

Jim swallows, wondering if that's even _legal_.

"It's not that I'm not pleased to have you on board, son, because I am.  Your Academy record, field citations and scores from basic all speak for themselves.  All I need to know is whether you're going to be a liability out there."

"Sir?" Jim is genuinely confused.

Pike leans forward so that his calipers creak and rests his elbows on the desk.  "When the phaser banks are hot and the torpedoes are flying, are you going to be able to focus on the job at hand?  Are you going to be able to let go of the center chair, Lieutenant, or are people going to die because you can't get your head in the game? _This_ game?"

Kirk's eyes narrow and he grips the arms of the chair hard enough that his knuckles turn white.  "I'm done with command," he says tightly.  "I'm _done_ with it."

The tableau holds across the polished expanse of Pike's expensive desk.  It holds just long enough for Jim to feel like a bit of an idiot, then Pike leans back, nodding to himself, his grey eyes serious.  "That's good enough for me.  Report to shuttle bay seven in one hour for your first assignment.  You're going deep space, Romulan neutral zone.  Think you can handle that?"

"Yes sir," Kirk responds smartly, pushing to his feet and standing at attention.

Pike waves at him in mock irritation.  "Go on, get out of here."

Jim's salute is a bit casual as he makes for the door.  Pike's confidence in his ability to adapt now forms the basis for his own feelings on the matter.  Up until now, he hadn't been sure whether or not he could stand being on the edge of the fight against Nero and not having any say, even that of a lowly Lieutenant.  He feels the first hint of certainty coalesce around the seed of Pike's trust.  God knows why, but Chris has always assumed the best of him.  That has the strange capacity to make him better ... better than he ever thinks he can be.

-:-

  
When he's gone, Pike waves a hand across the intercom. 

"Admiral?" the perky voice of his wife answers immediately.

"Send him in, Jessica."

The inner door swishes open and a tall, black clad figure stalks through.   The overhead lights glint blue on his neat, dark hair as he comes to a stop with both hands tucked into the small of his back.

"Admiral Pike, sir."

"Spock," he acknowledges, trying to dismiss the slight hitch in the Vulcan's gait as a figment of his imagination.  "How are you?"

"I am fully functional, sir, thank you for asking."

"I heard about that thing on Odesyus ... it's hard to lose part of the team, especially like that."

Spock inclines his head.  "It was most unfortunate.  Lieutenant Commander Morrison was a competent and highly respected member of our team.  Her sacrifice will be remembered with honour."

"I heard you were injured that day, too."

"Your information is accurate."

Pike glances at the flimsies on his desk.  "A fractured tibia, collapsed lung, severe decompression and a scalp laceration?"

"I believe you will find that the scalp laceration was acquired on the previous mission, sir."

The admiral shakes his head wearily.  "Of course it was." 

Spock waits patiently while his commanding officer collects his thoughts.  He is, by nature and training, a patient person, so the task is by no means a taxing one.  In addition, he has developed an admiration that borders on a very un-Vulcan affection for his ex-Point Two, and finds that simply standing in Pike's presence is an acceptable use of his time.

"Spock, you're a Vulcan.  There are significantly fewer of you than there used to be.  I trust you'll remember that and try, at least try, to come home every night relatively intact?"

Spock blinks once, the only sign of surprise he'll allow himself.  "I am well aware of the plight of my people, sir.  However, I must remind you that there are approximately one hundred and seventeen Vulcans still serving in active duty within Starfleet ..."

"Approximately, huh?"

"I have not yet had the opportunity to apprise myself of the latest casualty lists, Admiral." 

Pike winces, but Spock continues unaffected. 

"I was merely attempting to illustrate the fact that not only am I far from an exception to the rule, I am, in fact, a prime example of it."

"How do you figure?"

"Were you aware that of the three hundred and seventy two Vulcans enlisted in Starfleet at the time of Nero's attack on our homeworld, one hundred ninety eight were killed and only fifty seven resigned their commissions.  Discounting those deceased, that is a service retention rate of approximately sixty seven point two four percent." 

Spock's face is calm, his stance relaxed. 

"My decision to remain in active service can hardly be viewed as differing from the cultural norm, sir, and there are many Vulcans serving in positions of more immediate danger than I."

Pike still doesn't like it, but he's forced to accede to the truth of it.  The problem is; Spock isn't just another Vulcan to him.  The man had been his Point One throughout the entire continuum-bending debacle with Nero.  Although he couldn't claim him as a friend, there's no denying a bond between them.  Everything Pike has seen of Spock convinces him that if this particular Vulcan were to die, even if it were honorably rescuing someone or other, the Federation would suffer a distinctly unique loss.  Of course, if Pike confronts him with that feeling, Spock will undoubtedly raise an eyebrow and offer up some dry Vulcan tidbit to the effect that favoritism is illogical and unethical. 

Maybe he'd be right.

Still ...

"I know Sally was important to you.  I know that Odesyus was a hell-hole and I'm sorry we had to send you there, but don't think I haven't read Captain Taylor's report.  Don't think I don't know what you did."

There's a sudden tension in the room that only occurs when Spock thinks he's being reprimanded for being emotional.  Under the muted downlights, his cheeks take on the faintest greenish hue.  It's more of a response than Pike has ever got while serving with him, and to be honest, he isn't sure if it worries him or pleases him.  His own humanity is vociferous in its opinion that Spock would be so much better off if only he _expressed_ now and again ... but the seven years of knowing him say otherwise.  Now, standing there so familiarly, Spock lets nothing but his circulation give him away.  His expression indicates no emotion of any kind, and anyway, Pike doesn't know if he'd find shame or pride beneath the facade and he's reluctant to find out.

"I take it you heard most of that, with Kirk?"

Spock shifts minutely from foot to foot, but Pike doesn't miss it.  In his small way, he's grateful for the change of subject.  Whatever happened on Odesyus, it must be even worse than it sounded.

"I am uncomfortable with eavesdropping," Spock admits after a lengthy silence.

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I needed Kirk to be honest with me and you to hear what he said.  Frankly, he was never going to do that with you in the room."

A lone eyebrow quirks.  "Sir?"

"You heard him, Commander, he was there at Vulcan."

"I fail to see the relevance of that fact," Spock observes after only a moment's hesitation.

"You don't think he's going to wonder if you hate him for it?"

Spock considers this for several long moments, his elegant brows furrowed slightly in concentration.  Pike tries to quell a strong upsurge of nostalgia.  Spock was the best Point One he'd ever had - possessed of a singular bravery and capable of rational thought at times when most other Points had either collapsed under the physical strain or emotional trauma.  To say Pike missed working with him was to say he missed being able to walk unaided.

Eventually Spock makes a small motion that, for him, may have been frustration.  "I cannot conceive of any reason why I should harbor animosity towards James Kirk, even if I was capable of such an emotion."

Pike needs more confirmation of the assurances he had already given to the Council about Kirk's deployment.  Kirk's will tempered by Spock's experience seems like a match made in heaven, but they will be doomed to failure if they get off on the wrong foot.  Jim isn't the sort to hold his tongue and Pike knows damn well that Spock's still touchy about Vulcan, even if he won't admit it.  EPAS recruits are few and far between, with most youngsters grasping for the glory and the action they associate with a military deployment.  Those who do sign up are often 'Fleet washouts, ex-medical or these days, refugees with nowhere else to go.  Such people are vital; they keep pilot seats warm and the sickbays staffed.  They navigate the old Stafleet cast-offs and they keep them in the sky long after the Admirality would have decommissioned them.  They're useful people and Pike is glad to have them.

But a recruit like Jim ... they're the special kind.  They're the ones who know where they want to be.  They're the ones who become Points. 

"He was there that day and he didn't save your planet," Pike insists.  He has to know if Jim needs to be assigned to a different Divisional Commander, as much as his gut is telling him Spock is the one.

Spock's mouth makes a little shrug.  "So were a great many other people, you and I included.  It would be illogical to blame any individual person for the destruction of my homeworld."

"Except maybe Nero," Pike says, watching him very closely.

With no outward sign of emotion, Spock inclines his head fractionally in acknowledgment.  "Except maybe Nero."

Pike watches him a moment longer, then extends his hand.  Spock reaches out and taps it lightly, his fingertips to the back of the other man's hand.  It is a sign of their long association that he accedes to even that slight contact.  It is a sign of respect that Pike cherishes.

"Well, congratulations then, Commander," Pike smiles, letting his hand fall.  "You just scored yourself our top recruit."

Spock's face is a polite mask, but his dark eyes hold a twinkle of mischief.  "I shall endeavor to prove myself worthy of the honor."


	3. chapter 1.2

Jim uses the hour he has up his sleeve to ditch his Starfleet formals and change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He's off duty and he'll be damned if he's going to spend the eight hour warp trip to the neutral zone being strangled and itching all over. Truth be told, his own clothes feel almost unfamiliar after so much time in standard command issue; he'd enlisted before Nero, not in the massive influx that followed the destruction of Vulcan and the carnage erupted when Starfleet lashed out in revenge. It was how he'd come to be on the _Enterprise_ that fateful day, a fresh new face on the flagship's maiden voyage. He'd been so fucking excited that the desolation that followed the planet's distress call absolutely gutted him. He firmly believes that he only managed to execute that space jump because he was too numb to realise how suicidal the whole plan had been.

In the present moment, he shakes his head to clear it of bad memories and shoulders his duffel. The shuttle bay he needs is coming up on his left.

He presents both himself and his orders, both of which are scanned, before he's free to choose a seat and await the shuttle that will take him and the rest of the crowd to the _USS Stalwart_. It's an older model constitution class starship, now retrofitted with multiple medevac shuttle bays, escape pods and cutting edge medical facilities. It's essentially a hospital, a base of operations and a home away from home for some two hundred and eighty odd Points, Ops, Pilots and Medics. Soon, it'll be two hundred and eighty one. Jim wonders once again what the hell he's doing here.

He takes a seat next to a tall, lean humanoid in EPAS blacks who has his face concealed behind a rather old-fashioned broadsheet newspaper. Not many people read the news like that anymore. It's an eccentricity reserved for those early-colonised planets that can't let go of their roots. Luna is one of the few places where such things are still available, along with coffee in paper cups and those little chestnuts roasted over an actual hot plate and served in a paper bag. If he's honest with himself, he kind of likes them, too. They've got a brittle kind of impermanence to them; an honesty and fragility that is hard to find in this mixed up, plassteel, transparent aluminium society.

Jim falls into his seat, trying to ease the lingering tension left by his conversation with Pike. The old man knows exactly what buttons to push, that's for sure. Not that it's surprising, understanding what he does of Jim's history. Perhaps only his mother and Sam would understand better, but then, Chris has always seen right through his bullshit. No, if Chris thought this whole EPAS thing was going to be another one of Jim's all-round fuck ups, he would have said something, if not to save Jim's neck, then to avoid wasting the time and resources of an already overtaxed public service. The fact he made it through that interview means more than acing basic. It means Chris thinks there's a chance he really belongs here.

There's a first time for everything.

The guy next to him turns the page with a crisp flick of his fingers.

"Anything interesting?" Jim asks out of the blue, not really caring but feeling the need for some contact with another living being.

Newspaper lowers the nearer edge of his reading material. His angular face sports beautifully upswept brows, one quirked in enquiry. "Are you addressing me?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim confirms, widening his smile to cover his shock upon discovering Newspaper is a Vulcan. You just didn't see many Vulcans around these days. The reminder clenches his gut uncomfortably. "Are you done with the sports section?"

There is a split second where Kirk could have sworn the guy looked surprised, but then he's shuffling through the pages and deftly pulling out the requested portion. Jim takes it with a nod of thanks, careful not to brush fingers now that he knows who he's talking to.

"Thanks."

"You are welcome," is the carefully articulated reply.

Desperate to redirect his own attention, Jim frowns at the football ladder and tutts a drug scandal. He hisses through his teeth at a pro ball player who'd not only cheated on his wife, but done it with a Denebian. What the hell was _that_ about? After he makes several other unconscious sounds, he becomes aware of the fact that Newspaper has lowered his own copy and is busy looking at him.

Kirk darts his eyes around the room and back to the Vulcan, as though it's possible he might be staring at someone else. "Help you?"

"Are you experiencing difficulty with the newspaper?"

The question is politely worded and the guy appears genuine, so Kirk stifles his first response which had been to ask him what the fuck he meant by that and pushes himself up with his feet until he's sitting properly.

"A problem?"

"I, myself, have no problem," Newspaper assures him. "But I thank you for your concern."

"No," Jim says, shaking his head, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "I mean, what makes you think I have a problem?"

"Ah," says Newspaper, lowering his copy to his lap. "I could not help but overhear your verbal indicators of dissatisfaction, and wondered if perhaps that section of the newspaper was in some way displeasing."

Jim looks from the Vulcan to the sports section and back to the Vulcan again. "I'm just pissed the Martians shat all over the Bears last night, is all."

Newspaper's eyes widen almost imperceptibly and Jim has the hysterical thought that the guy is trying very hard not to jump to any conclusions. In the end, the Vulcan turns back to his own newspaper with a slightly cautious, "I see."

Jim manages to hold onto his laugher for about three seconds before it breaks free. The noise draws several curious glances from around the room, not the least of which belongs to Newspaper, who's looking about as concerned as a Vulcan can possibly look.

"Oh," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry, but I swear for a second there I could hear what you were thinking."

The Vulcan tenses and Jim curses inwardly.

"I mean ... oh shit ... not literally!" he babbles in an undertone. "It's a figure of speech, like before with the Martians and the Bears, and I should probably clear that one up too, because, you know, we can't have folks thinking our sportspeople actually sh ..."

Newspaper cuts him off with a tight wave of his hand and a look that makes the hair on the back of Jim's neck stand on end. "I had not made any assumptions regarding either human customs or your telepathic ability. I apologise if my species' natural aptitude causes you concern."

"Me? I'm not concerned. Fact is, you could take my brain apart in five seconds if you wanted to and there wouldn't be a damn thing I could do about it. I got psi-rated, you know, all Starfleet personnel have to, and I'm about as telepathic as a brick. The thing is, you're a Vulcan, so I trust that you won't ... you know ... fuck with my synapses."

Newspaper just stares at him with absolutely no change of expression.

The people sitting closest are seriously watching them now, Kirk realises. One young man wears a grin on his face that suggests Jim is really making an ass of himself. He gives the room a cocky smile and hopes to hell none of them are serving in his Division, or at the very least, that they are serving in ops or engineering or fucking catering, or something.

The deck under his feet vibrates subtly and the docking lights turn from amber to green. Their little coterie of onlookers begins to scramble for bags and other personal belongings as the computer announces their shuttle ready for boarding.

"Look," Kirk offers, leaning a little towards Newspaper in an attempt to make their conversation more private. "I'm sorry for being a jerk about your telepathy. I have this habit of putting my foot in my mouth."

The Vulcan glances from Kirk's feet to his face with a studious frown. Jim can't restrain a chuckle and shifts in his seat to face the other man. He raiseds one hand and fumbles for a moment before he manages to make a _ta'al_.

"I'm James Kirk," he says, hoping his Vulcan accent isn't too horrific. "Live long and prosper."

"Spock cha'Sarek," the vulcan replies in standard, his hand gesture both graceful and effortless. "Peace and long life."

Kirk feels his smile freeze into a rictus of something akin to panic. Suddenly he's on Vega and there's biting cold, stinging water, face too numb to feel. Walters and Emaco are tied to the wreckage, but it's not until he hears that voice, sees that hand shoot out of the ocean, that he knows they stand a chance ...

Spock. The dude said his name was Spock. Jim's brain jumps tracks again, shattering him back into the present. There really couldn't be that many Vulcans enlisted in EPAS and he had yet to meet two Vulcans with the same name. Still, there's something inside his whirling, psi-null human brain that forces him to ask the obvious question.

"You wouldn't happen to be a Division Commander by any chance?"

Spock folds his newspaper neatly into thirds and tucks it under his arm. "Indeed I would, Mister Kirk." He takes a moment to look at the human sitting next to him. "I also believe that you are enlisted in my division."

"Well fuck me, what are the odds?" Jim wonders aloud.

Spock freezes halfway out of his seat, then continues the motion as though nothing has happened. Kirk fels his cheeks flush and leaps to intercept the Commander as he takes one step towards the shuttle.

"Jesus, I wasn't propositioning you ... uh, sir," he insists urgently.

His DivCO comes to an abrupt halt in order to avoid bumping into his star recruit.

"Admiral Pike spoke highly of your intellect and character, but he failed to mention your frequent use of profanity and unintelligible colloquialisms," he frowned. "Also, in answer to your question, the odds of you and I carrying out a conversation at this time were approximately eighty six point two in favour, since I had intended to approach you at the first opportunity."

Possessed by a moment's crazed curiosity, Kirk asks one more question. "And the odds of making a fool of myself?"

"Based on our short acquaintance, I would have to say those odds were more favourable still," Spock delivers crushingly. He then neatly sidesteps Kirk and takes his place in the queue for the shuttle.

Jim presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets hard enough that he sees stars.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

  
-:-

  
Kirk has been too wrapped up in his own troubles to take much notice of the other new crew members being shipped aboard the _Stalwart_. He'd queued behind Commander Spock, which had been an awkward experience consisting of staring at the taller man's shoulder blades as they shuffled forward. Seriously, the man had no business having such perfect posture.

He snaps out of his funk hours later when disembarking begins.

He doesn't have to wait for baggage as his single duffel carries everything he feels he needs in life. There are a couple of changes of casual clothes, a selection of dog-eared, honest-to-god paperback books , a holo or two and a couple of luxuries he doesn't expect to encounter in deep space, like a chocolate bar and a bag of non-replicated apples. The lot is efficiently scanned by security for biohazards and contraband before he's allowed to follow the other travellers into the main corridors of the ship.

He stops short in the doorway, one of the first to get this far. Those behind him just shoulder their way past, one or two shooting him a puzzled look as he simply stands and stared at the busy main thoroughfare. Men and women in EPAS blacks stride confidently along the worn anti-slip surfaces, their flexible boots making less sound than their exclamations and tinkles of laughter. People slap each other on the back, punch each other in the shoulder or walk purposefully past in small groups or singular units, looking focused and important and on the ball. He spots the tabs on their collars and begins to be able to tell them apart. Points joke with Medics and Pilots greet Ops staff like old friends.

Kirk feels a burgeoning warmth inside his chest. There's none of the bitter defeatism he'd endured the last six months in Starfleet, not here on this ship.

"Lieutenant Kirk, James T?" asks a feminine voice by his elbow.

Kirk blinks in surprise and glances down at a slight brunette. "That's me."

"Hannity, Lieutenant, Ops," she clarifies. "If you'd like to follow me?"

"Sure."

He lets her lead the way.

"General orientation begins at eleven hundred hours, but all of the teams have designated one member to help you settle in." She pauses and lookes up at him with quite a lot of pride in her eyes. "I'm your intro, sir. You'll be joining us at medevac shuttle echo delta niner niner six; Nix to her friends."

A strange little thrill runs through him at her words; a frisson of something that he can't quite describe. It feels a bit like fate or destiny, but it could just as easily be the bagel he had for breakfast so he thrusts it firmly out of his mind.

"It's quite an honour, getting Nix, sir," Hannity continues. "If you don't mind me saying, your aptitude scores must have been pretty impressive. Either that or you're the first to find a way to bribe our CO."

Kirk offers her a flirtatious grin and jogs in order to fall into step with her. "Let's just say I know how to make best use of my assets."

"Yeah, right." Hannity rolls her eyes but he can tell she thinks he's funny. "You get our Point Twos to so much as shake your hand and then I _might_ begin to believe you're not just some hot shot scorecard, fresh out of the Academy."

Kirk is gripped by an unpleasant feeling. "So who's my Two, Han? Do you mind if I call you Han?"

She presses the button for the turbolift, then holds the doors open and indicates he should step in first. "My friends call me Annie, so you can call me Mister or Lieutenant," she pauses and looks at him meaningfully.

"Sure thing." He smothers the impulse to call her Han just to see what she'll do about it.

Hannity turns a sunny smile his way, the smattering of freckles across her nose highlighted by the downlighting. "Were the top team in Prime Division, so that means our alpha Point Two is also our DivCO."

"Hang on ... that means Spock is Nix's Point Two?" And yes, Kirk wishes he'd sounded a little less freaked out just then.

"Commander Spock was quite enthusiastic about having you join our crew, Lieutenant." Hannity sounds disapproving.

"He was?"

"Enthusiastic for him, at any rate," she shrugs. "He only reminded us once that your human emotions constitute a liability of significant proportions."

"Oh ... wait, what?" Jim frowns, taking the last few seconds of the turbolift ride to examine Hannity more closely. She's most definitely human, not just humanoid. Then again, she is also stuck in Ops rather than in the medevac with Spock. "You mean to tell me the rest of his crew is Vulcan too?"

"No," she contradicts him lightly, stepping smartly forward as the turbolift disgorges them. "Both the alpha and the beta crews are entirely human except for Commander Spock and Lieutanant Commander T'Loren."

"So, what gives?"

She comes to an abrupt halt in the hallway and turns to face him. "I think we've just served with him so long everyone's forgotten the difference. The Commander has a way of rubbing off on those around him without, you know, becoming corrupted in return." She shakes her head slightly, as though embarrassed by what she's revealed. "It'll take a bit of acclimation to begin with, but we've got the best save-to-loss ratio in the fleet, which makes the adjustment worth it."

Kirk blinks at her, not quite sure he wants to become a Vulcan just yet, thanks.

"Here's your swipe card. It'll only let you access your quarters, general areas and the replicators until your codes get processed." Hannity points at the nearest door, then turns on her heel. "Don't forget orientation at eleven hundred, sir. The Commander hates it when people are late."

Jim stares numbly at the piece of plastic in his hand and wonders where the hell that sense of belonging has gone.


	4. chapter 1.3

Approximately one hour later, Jim takes his seat next to one of the other twenty or so new recruits. The young man's blacks look just as pressed and offensively new as his own.

"Jim Kirk," he says with a wide smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

The recruit turns to face him and Jim is struck by the youth and innocence in his face. "Chekov," the boy says proudly, "Pavel Andreivich."

Jim's smile morphs into one of true amusement as the kid's thick Russian accent washes over him. "Chekov, eh? What are you, Ops?" he guesses, craning his neck to peer at the boy's tabs.

"Not exactly, sir" Chekov shakes his curly head. "I'm a pilot primarily, but I am doubling."

"Doubling?"

"Yes, sir," he nods, and there's that grin again. "Our Diwision Commander has asked me to cross-specialise in Ops," he confesses rather proudly, "in nawigation."

Kirk snorts through his nose but recovers quickly. "Navigation, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I graduated top of my class in astrogation, astrophysics and varp propulsion."

"Well, good for you, kid," Jim slaps him on the shoulder, then winces as the kid's skinny frame rocks with the force of it.

Chekov frankly beams under the mild praise and Jim is going to ask him exactly how long it's been since he'd started shaving when the three-toned whistle to attention sings over the comm. Everyone around him sits a little straighter as Commander Spock makes his way to the podium with long, measured strides. Jim tries not to buy into it. He's used to being disappointed by his commanding officers. One year in Starfleet has taught him the virtue of not putting people on a pedestal, especially if they hold your life in their hands. Still, there is something about the fast and all-pervading hush that falls over the new recruits and the numerous representatives from Prime Divisions medevac crews that impresses him despite his self-preserving cynicism. As Spock takes the podium he eyes the crowd, gauging their attentiveness. You could have heard a pin drop.

"Your punctuality is noted," the deep, level voice begins without preamble. "The purpose of this briefing is to provide a brief overview of Prime Division's core structure and standing orders. I anticipate the duration of this phase to be approximately one point five hours, at the conclusion of which, there will be a short recess. Food and beverages will be available from the replicators at this time." He pauses and glances down at his PADD.

Kirk has the feeling the momentary gesture is an act, that Spock has the entire content of his presentation memorised and could have performed it by rote. He has no idea where this certainty comes from.

"At approximately thirteen hundred hours, we will reconvene for a brief summary of our current mission, anticipated crew rotation and specific divisional considerations. Please take the opportunity during lunch to confirm your crew allocation, alpha or beta signifier and provisional roster. The data will be available from all information points within this room." Spock's eyes roam over the crowd. "Questions and comments are welcome, however, I would ask you to withhold enquiries of an individual nature until the conclusion of the day, at which point your Section Chiefs, the other Divisional Commanders and myself will be available for consultation. Does anyone require clarification?"

A single hand is raised and Spock zeroes in on it immediately.

"Ensign?" he acknowledges.

"Commander, is there any truth to the rumour that EPAS is about to be restructured?" the youngster calls out clearly. "If we become part of Starfleet, how will that affect our current operational treaties with both the Klingons and the Romulans?"

A murmur goes up around the room and Jim finally sits straight in his seat. He wants to catch a glimpse of the brave soul who's raising an issue like that in a public forum, and on his first day, too.

Spock lifts a hand and immediate hush descends again. "Your question is intriguing, however such discussions fall outside the purview of this briefing. No doubt most of you are aware of the circulating rumours, despite my ongoing efforts to discourage them. Until definitive information is available on the subject, it would be illogical to speculate on the potential repercussions of an administrative restructure. I would advise you to outline your concerns and submit them to your superior officer through established channels."

The ensign's face falls and he seems dissatisfied, but appears to weigh the pros and cons of further debate with their DivCo in front of a total audience of approximately eighty persons, and decides against it. Jim hasn't heard the rumours and resolves to fill himself in at the earliest opportunity, despite the Commander's opinion of scuttlebutt. In his experience, rumours have a nasty habit of coming true, especially when you don't want them to. He can think of nothing worse than an EPAS governed by the Admirality. Shit, they're half the reason he _left_ Starfleet.

"If there are no further questions?" Spock looks around the room, clearly unshaken by the first, rather controversial one.

Nobody so much as breathes.

"Very well. As you are undoubtably all aware, the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service, or EPAS, was founded at the turn of the century by a cohort of retired Starfleet captains. Initially a simple charitable organisation and not-for-profit 'humanitarian' group," he pauses and Kirk might have detected a slight expression of irritation at the terminology, then again he might have been imagining it, "EPAS became an official branch of the Federation of Sentient Planets' Auxillliary Corps on stardate twenty one sixty one. Since then, it has operated as a a semi-independent branch of Starfleet, governed by civilian interests rather than those of the military."

Spock does not look at the Ensign. Rather pointedly, Kirk thinks. Is this history lesson always part of the intended orientation briefing? It's possible. Certainly, the Commander remembers to look down at his PADD as though checking his notes, but the gesture doesn't exactly exude authenticity.

"I have chosen to belabour a fact with which you are doubtless already familiar for the express purpose of reinforcing our chain of command. Within the _USS Stalwart_ , standard Starfleet hierarchy applies, with crew members reporting upwards within their unit, thence to their Section Chiefs, Divisional Commanders and finally to the ship's Captain. However, unlike Starfleet, Captain Taylor reports directly to the Minister for Health on the Federation Council, not to the Admirality. This structure ensures us independence of action and a degree of self-determination the like of which is unprecedented within primarily military organisations such as Starfleet itself. Some would argue that this is the basis upon which EPAS has been able to forge lasting treaties with antagonistic forces, whilst Starfleet has not. Such treaties permit us to operate within the neutral zones, combat areas and front line deployments with minimal risk of being identified as viable military targets. Such freedom of movement is essential to the accomplishment of our standing orders."

Kirk feels a slow smile taking hold of his face as Spock turns to less general matters and hones in on the specifics of their deployment in the Romulan Neutral Zone. The Commander might have discouraged unofficial rumour mongering, but he'd quite clearly expressed his opinion of their potential militarisation. Glancing around the room, Jim sees several other poorly concealed smiles and some openly admiring expressions. Yeah, he thinks, Spock might speak like a Vulcan, but he understands the human psyche well enough. There are few humans and no Vulcans he'd ever met who could have managed something that subtle and still been direct. Jim has a feeling he can learn a lot from his new CO.

-:-

Jim has double-checked his assignment and signifier, unwilling to risk humiliating himself if Hannity has given him incorrect information. It's there on the cortex - Kirk, J.T. Point (1st grade), Medevac Shuttle ED996, designation Beta. During the remainder of the briefing, he's felt his initial trepidation at serving under Spock's command slowly dissolve into one of guarded curiosity. Although by no means an expressive speaker, Spock has managed to hold the crowd's interest with almost superhuman ease. The only time Jim felt his attention wandering had been when Spock yielded the floor to his contemporaries, taking a seat in the front row, his back ramrod straight and hands clasped neatly in his lap.

Now that the general briefing is over, they've been ordered to report to separate training rooms on a crew by crew basis. The Nix crews are designated aft rec room four. Jim makes his way through the ship carefully, not wanting to be the first new recruit to arrive, but remembering Hannity's warning that Spock disapproves of tardiness. In the end, he nearly _is_ late, simply because the ship is unfamiliar. He pauses to let the doors swish open and is greatly relieved to find only eight of Nix's ten crew present.

Hannity is standing next to the Commander, a glass of water cradled in one hand. She spares him a wink as the last two crew sneak in the door a full two minutes prior to the scheduled commencement time. He mimes wiping the sweat from his brow, which makes her smile at him but earns him a curious look from Spock. Jim escapes the Commander's raised eyebrow by pretending he doesn't see it.

"If everyone is assembled then I suggest we commence." Spock places his untouched glass of water onto a nearby table, the movement so precise that the liquid hardly ripples. "Our transit time to the Eridani Sector is approximately thirteen days, nine hours. During this time, we are presented with the unique opportunity of having both alpha and beta crews available for training simultaneously. Once deployed, beta shift will acclimate themselves to working during ship's night and alpha will maintain their current hours of duty." He pauses, dark eyes flicking between Kirk and Chekov, both newcomers, as if to say, _I trust this arrangement is satisfactory?_

Neither says anything and Spock moves on. "Simultaneous training offers us a unique opportunity to form interpersonal understandings and technical skills that will enable us to function more cohesively as a field unit. Any and all conclusions you may reach about each other over this period should not be underestimated. Whilst rare, there are instances where crew members have to serve double shifts within their complementary unit. The circumstance of cross-rotational shift work is less disruptive if a pre-existing reciprocally functional relationship exists."

Kirk wonders why he can't just say, _it helps to get to know one another._

"To further this endeavour," Spock continues, oblivious to Jim's inner critique, "I now invite each of you to step forward and introduce yourselves." His eyes settle on the only other Vulcan in the room. "T'Loren?"

With a slight inclination of her head, the diminutive woman stands and surveys their loose semi-circle with equanimity. "Live long and prosper," she begins, raising one delicate hand and letting it fall again. "I am called T'Loren. I was born on Vulcan-that-was in the province of Raal which abutted the Voroth Sea. Before enlisting in EPAS I considered further study in diplomacy and xenolinguistics. I hold the rank of Lieutenant Commander and have served as Point Two on beta shift for nine months, two weeks, six days and four point nine hours."

Spock steps forward, pre-empting T'Loren's movement to regain her seat. "Lieutenant Commander, you may recall that humans customarily exchange details of a more personal nature when participating in such introductions," he encourages, his tone skirting the edge of apologetic.

T'Loren blinks, her dark eyes fixed on Spock's. "I have an interest in nineteenth century Terran poetry," she adds in a monotone. "I do not care for caffeinated beverages. I find the ambient temperature of the ship to be approximately eight point six degrees below comfortable." She raises an eyebrow. "Is this satisfactory?"

There is no challenge in her tone, only a question.

Spock nods. "Affirmative."

T'Loren sits.

A short man, whipcord lean and with a slightly manic look about him goes next. He clears his throat somewhat self-consciously. "I'm Leonard McCoy and I'm human," he stops to roll his eyes, " _obviously_ ... I'm from just outside Mississippi to be precise." He shifts from foot to foot and Jim starts to pity him a little.

"I'm a doctor," he adds gruffly, "majored in surgery, xeonbiology and psychology. I served ten years in Starfleet after I graduated, before ending up here with you fine people. I have a daughter, Joanna, back home." He smiles, a quick lopsided tug of the lips. "She's just started Junior High and is planning to become a doctor, just like her daddy."

Once again, Spock is forced to intercede as McCoy moves to sit down again. "Some personal information, doctor?"

McCoy scowls mightily. "My likes and dislikes, you mean? Why Spock, after all this time, you want to be friends?"

Jim catches his breath, his eyes glued to the Commander's face. McCoy's tone is amused, but not exactly subordinate.

"Such exchange is customary, is it not?"

McCoy stares Spock down, that selfsame smirk on his lips. "My favourite colour is blue. I'll drink anything from moonshine to Andorian ale, but I prefer Saurian brandy. I think transporters are a damn fool way to get around, but mostly," his bushy eyebrows take on a life of their own, "mostly, I'm curious to hear what scintillating personal titbits _you're_ gonna share with us." He shrugs. "Three years serving on Nix with you and I don't even know how you take your coffee."

The room is tight with tension and silence.

"I do not drink coffee," Spock says after a beat, as though it were common knowledge.

"Oh, no you don't!" the doctor chuckles, when Spock turns to Chekov. "You're not getting out of this that easily! Come on, it's your turn, let's hear what you like to have for breakfast, or how much shellack it takes to maintain that indestructible hairdo of yours!"

Everyone freezes, drinks halfway to their lips, eyes darting to one another as if to confirm that, yes, McCoy really has just sassed their DivCO. Several of the more established crew purse their lips in either disappointment or irritation, Jim can't tell. Based on that he deduces that this show of disrespect is nothing new. Along with everyone else, Jim watches Spock. The next move is his.

"Come on, Spock!" McCoy coaxes, his voice laced with amusement and a little condescension. "You started this love-in, show us what you've got!"

Rather than put his doctor on report, publicly berate him or react in any of the other ways Jim has anticipated, Spock simply stands, hands clasped behind his back, calm and collected.

"I was born on Vulcan-that-was in a small city on the outskirts of Shi'Kahr. My father is the Vulcan ambassador to Earth and my mother was a human woman," he pauses, "a teacher. She perished during Nero's attack on our homeworld."

Several crew murmur in sympathy and Spock's eyes flick to the left and right, then settle back on McCoy.

"I attended the Shi'Kahr Academy and studied science, specialising in xenobiology, physics, medicine, mathematics and xenoecology. Upon graduation, I was offered a place at the Vulcan Science Academy, which I turned down in favour of joining EPAS. I served under Admiral Pike as his Point One on the _USS Stalwart_ until such time as his injuries precluded ongoing command. I then accepted the vacant posting as Divisional Commander at his recommendation."

His eyes narrow on McCoy, their darkness suddenly hard, and yet ... is that humour in the mix? Jim leans forward in his chair unconsciously.

"For recreation, I play the Vulcan lyre and practice meditation," Spock adds, his tone conversational. "When it is available, I prefer to eat gespar for breakfast," his eyes drill into McCoy, "and I utilise no adhesive compounds for the purposes of styling my hair."

The tension catches and holds for a moment, then, to Jim's surprise, McCoy bursts out laughing. "All right, all right, you green-blooded bastard," he chuckles. "Full points to you for calling my bluff. Perhaps you can play us a song on that lyre of yours when we're done here."

Spock's eyebrows twitch. "Unlikely." He turns and gestures to Chekov.

The young Russian is frozen in his chair, thoroughly intimidated by the showdown he's just witnessed, however friendly it may have been. His eyes are wide under his mop of curls and Jim has the feeling the kid probably couldn't even remember his own name right now, let alone deliver an abridged biography of Chekov, Pavel Andreievich.

With an upswell of protectiveness he didn't know he had in him, Jim stands up.

"My name's James T. Kirk. I was born in space, but raised in Iowa and I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, not that it's a bad place, it's just a little too ... _little_ for me." He stops, waiting for and receiving a nod from Spock that allows Chekov time to regroup.

"My father was in Starfleet. He was captain of the _Kelvin_ for about twelve minutes before Nero put an end to that. My mother served too, so you could say this life is kind of in my blood." He licks his lips and steers himself onto safer territory. "I gave regular service a shot. I was there at the Battle of Vulcan and I did my part," his eyes flick between Spock and T'Loren in silent apology. "It wasn't enough."

Jim is suddenly at a loss for words. His throat is dry. What could he possibly say to follow a memory like that? His hands clench at his sides and he bites down firmly on the inside of his cheek. Is he supposed to tell them that was the day he'd lost the faith? Realised that the reason his father died was nothing more than a fucked up twist of fate destined to be repeated ad infinitum throughout the universe? That one raving despot has decided that life is cheap and revenge is everything, which gives the universe a license to go utterly batshit insane? Look at the Klingons now, or the chaos amongst the unfederated planets. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear it. It's not news; it's not even _his_ news. The Romulan conflict shouldn't feel so personal, Jim knows that, he really does.

"Your pass-times, Lieutenant?" Spock prompts him quietly.

Jim looks up. Those alien eyes, so recently fathomless and cold, are trained on him now, and Jim sees something entirely different in their depths. Compassion? Understanding, maybe? He looks around the room, but nobody else, not even T'Loren appears to have noticed that spark of emotionality so quickly shuttered. Spock's words, that look, it's permission of sorts; a subtle acknowledgement and reassurance. Speak of whatever you will, it can not trivialise our loss.

"Back home we had a farm and used to breed quarter horses." Jim musters a smile. "I played football in high school but mostly I just tinker with cars and motorbikes when I've got some downtime, not that there's much of that these days."

His wryness is not lost on the rest of the crew and they smile or snort as one, lightening the mood further.

Spock inclines his head, hiding his expression but acknowledging something at the same time. Those eyes might be fixed on the floor, but Jim has the overwhelming certainty that his keen, pointed ears are noting every word. It should make him feel like he's on trial; like this is yet another aptitude assessment, but it doesn't.

"That's all there is, really," he apologises, unable to look away from Spock. "Just your average son of a bitch trying to make a difference, I suppose."

If there is something more in that, something else between the lines, the Commander seems to be giving every impression of not having noticed.

-:-

Late that night, Jim lies awake in his bunk with flimsies and PADDs scattered across the covers. He rolls onto his side, pulling a face when the hard corner of some part of his reading jabs him in the flank. He settles with one arm folded under his head, disdaining the pillow. The room is quiet except for his deep sigh.

His mind wanders back through the briefings and strategy 'freshers. He plays back the Beta crew meeting and tries not to think of T'Loren's measuring stare. Shit, he knows there's a reason he and Pavel are there. They don't just create new positions in EPAS, there's got to be a vacancy, and that only happens when someone's promoted or someone dies.

Lt. Commander Sally Morrison.

Jim rolls the name across his tongue, whispering it into the still half-light of his cabin.

She's the reason he's now part of Nix's crew. God only knew who Pavel was replacing. Morrison had died some time ago; nearly four months by Jim's rough estimate, but hadn't been replaced until now. He wonders if Alpha and Beta took turns doing double shifts, or if they pulled extra crew from the floating pool. Somehow, Jim can't picture them letting just anyone fill her shoes. He'd put money on the fact that the Vulcans pulled the doubles; they needed less sleep after all.

Uncomfortable again, he rolls onto his back, an arm flung over his head, sheltering himself in the angle of one elbow. He needs a good night's sleep and curses the irony of the blissful one he'd had the night before, when it didn't matter so much. He'd completed basic with flying colours. He knew his shit, remembered his protocols and understood his role as a Point One. That didn't mean that the training schedule Spock and T'Loren had issued them was going to be easy.

Without having to look, he scrabbles around with his fingertips and holds the flimsy up to scan it once again. Three days of solid EVA training starting tomorrow, Wednesday. That would take them right through to Friday when they were scheduled to arrive at the very edge of the Romulan Neutral Zone. He guesses that makes sense. You don't want to be caught with your pants down and your personnel scattered against the stars when a call comes in to evac somewhere or other. All the systems training could be done in shifts once they arrived at their destination; all that stuff was ship internal.

Three days of EVA training.

Three days.

Angry with himself, Jim scrubs at his eyes and resolutely sweeps the paperwork onto the floor.

He needs to sleep.

"Computer, lights to zero. Open communications channel, program selection Iowa State News Cast, retrospective stardate twenty four hours, volume ten percent."

 _\- Acknowledged -_

There is a moment's pause as the signal is triangulated this far out from Earth. Then the familiar drawl of a midwest accent filters into the room. Jim stares up into the darkness and waits.

 _... A politically shaken Federation Council promised Sunday a sharper focus on jobs and the economy for Iowa, but key advisers were less sure-footed on health care reform. They took a wait-and-see approach as the dust settles from the punishing losses suffered at the hands of Nero and his splinter group of terrorist Romulan extremists. Latest poll numbers show a significant drop in confidence for the President, primarily because of the slow economic recovery and double-digit unemployment ..._


	5. chapter 1.4

Jim doesn't expect EPAS field training to be easy. After all, he's graduated respectably from Star Fleet Academy, so he feels like he knows how to take his licks with the rest of them. He just hadn't bargained on having a Vulcan as his Point Two.

It's Friday, about oh four hundred hours, and Lieutenant Commander T'Loren turns to him for probably the twentieth time and calmly states, "inadequate, Lieutenant Kirk."

Jim's fingers flex on the webbing of his harness as he does his level best not to tear it from his body and beat her senseless with it. He can see Chapel eying him with some concern from her little fold-away seat in the shuttle's tiny medbay. He likes Chapel. Not only is she a gorgeous strawberry blonde with legs that go all the way, he's got to know her a little over the last two days and she's a genuinely _nice_ person. They're few and far between in his opinion. He doesn't want to freak her out, so he takes a deep breath and tries to ignore the way his eyes are burning-out tired in his head.

It's the final day of field exercises and his body is far from accustomed to Beta shift. He's trying to sleep during ship's 'day' but his circadian rhythms have other ideas. He's tried to combat insomnia with the night-time gloom he's programmed into his quarters during the day, but it simply leaves him with the feeling that he's living his life in a darkened limbo. He'd joked to Pavel at breakfast that he was on the edge of killing himself because of the never-ending darkness and had then had to spend the entire break trying to convince the kid he was joking.

Across the double forcefields separating them, T'Loren is still staring at him, awaiting some acknowledgement of her criticism.

"Please clarify, sir," he grates out, knowing that pointless verbosity is lost on Vulcans, this one in particular.

"Your response time in zero-g remains outside the minimum safe operational parameters." T'Loren inclines her expressionless face. "Were this an actual mission, there is a twenty six percent chance your delay would have resulted in a less that optimum save-to-loss ratio."

"Twenty six percent?" he echoes. "Isn't that a twelve percent improvement on yesterday?"

T'Loren blinks at him from across the body of the shuttle, her impossibly lean form strapped into a Point harness just as he is. "Indeed. Perhaps you feel the need for recognition?"

This leaves Jim with the uncomfortable sensation that he _has_ , in fact, been fishing for compliments. He frowns and shakes his head in denial, blinks to clear the sweat from his eyes and motions to Chekov that he is ready to recommence the simulation. "One more time, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Are you not excessively fatigued?" she inquires.

Jim rolls his shoulders as if that might alleviate some of the crushing tiredness that's been eating him. "I can take it."

"Very well."

Chekov flips the switch and of course, there's no immediate sign that the whole thing is about to go to shit.

The exercise involves grappling with unconscious bodies from the shuttle's runner harnesses whilst in an EVA suit. T'Loren's job as their Point Two is to co-ordinate the rescue mission and priortize targets. Chekov has the dubious honor of attempting to maneuver Nix into a perfect pick-up trajectory. All Jim has to do is catch the dummy victims as they float past in zero-g, and then Chapel can pretend to triage them. It sounds simple, but in reality, it's far from it.

The _Stalwart_ has stopped off en-route for medical supplies and many of the other shuttle's crews have also taken the opportunity for some extra zero-g practice. In the cold expanse of space, Kirk can see the glint of several other Beta crews attempting various other training exercises. One of them involves an asteroid field, and yeah, he's not looking forward to rotating into that one.

The dummy victims look revoltingly real, right down to the one or two that have busted faceplates. On those ones, the blank, waxy expressions of the mannequins are all too accurate. Every one of them is man-sized and man-heavy and spiraling through space in crazy patterns from a central mock explosion site.

The grid around their operation is littered with short-lived debris, the kind that will degrade in UV light once their location edges out from behind the obscuring planet. Right now, they tinkle against Nix's hull and patter against Jim's EPAS-thin EVA suit. Some pieces are finer than grains of sand. Others hit him like baseballs if he isn't quick enough to dodge out of the way. Although he knows every piece is baby-bottom smooth, deliberately manufactured that way for safety's sake, it doesn't lessen the tightening in his gut every time a significant piece hits him.

If this were real, he'd be decompressed by now. Outside of a simulation, even something the size of an ice cube has the potential to pass through his suit, through his body, and out the other side if it has enough mass and velocity. When another chunk glances off his shoulder, he grits his teeth and tries not to think about how T'Loren is probably counting them and subtracting them from his overall efficiency rating.

The first dummy he catches easily, leaning confidently into his harness and using the grappling sling to slow its passage and haul it on board. Chapel has activated her mag boots and expertly manipulates the 'patient' inside the forcefield. They have atmosphere in the shuttle, but it doesn't make sense to use artificial gravity - Chapel would need a team of three just to get anyone from the door to the biobed in normal-g.

The second dummy gives Jim a little more trouble. It's spinning in a strange, elliptical arc, articulated limbs akimbo. He doesn't have a clear shot with the sling. The faceplate on this one's intact and he has a gut feeling Chapel will find it's marked with a green dot on its sternum. Alive, unless Jim fumbles the save.

As expected, the sling doesn't go on correctly, looping instead around the dummy's neck and shoulder.

"Going hands-on," he warns T'Loren, who snaps a quick acknowledgment, her eyes on the bioscanner and her helmet HUD as well as the physical space around them.

Jim quickly but thoroughly runs through the checklist, then disengages from the runner and pushes off into space. He times it well, and collides gently with the dummy at a distance of about point zero one clicks, his lifeline playing out behind him, problem free. Using his thighs to anchor himself, he adjusts the grappling sling and activates the automatic recall. It's only when T'Loren's urgent command to 'hold' cracks across the comm that he realizes he hasn't checked his return trajectory.

Off the bow, approaching at what seems like impossible speed, a third dummy, this one clearly mangled and 'lifeless,' is hurtling towards him. Quick thinking saves him the worst of the impact as he uses his maneuvering jets and lets the dummy in the sling absorb the blow from its fellow. Still, it's enough to knock the breath out of him and make him see stars. The comm goes crazy then. Bursts of static and distorted shouts fill his ears. Some of them are Chapel, others distinctly T'Loren, all of it interspersed with Russian curses. His lifeline hits the end of its tether and the harness cuts deep into his armpits and groin. Bile rises in his throat as he springs back on the recoil. He can't quite stifle the gasp of discomfort as it knocks the breath out of him. Comm chatter intensifies and he wants to tell them all that he's okay, that they can calm down, but then the backs of his legs hit the shuttle runner and he's punching through the cabin's forcefield, bringing the vacuum of space in his wake.

Not designed to hold up under such an influx of mass, the forcefield stutters and shorts, sending blue sparks into the oxygen-rich air and igniting the mix. Kirk ricochets off the bulkhead that separates the pilot from the cabin and then blows out the other side in a fireball, taking the dummy with him. He has a fleeting glimpse of Chapel clinging desperately to a hand-hold, the automatically deployed oxygen masks flapping in the gust of lost atmosphere as she reaches for one with desperate fingers. The whites of her eyes are scarlet with burst capillaries. He has a second to think _at least the fire's out ..._

Then there's nothing.

-:-

"... damn fool training exercise."

Clunk.

"There's enough danger in space without manufacturing more of it, if you ask me."

Hiss. Sting.

"Asking for trouble with their asinine simulations."

Whir.

"And doesn't anyone else think that seven hours in a harness is a little excessive? And yes, I'm talking to you, son, because I know you're awake."

Jim pulls a deeper breath into his lungs and forces his heavy eyelids open, then immediately wishes he hadn't. "What the ..."

Backlit by the sterile white of the _Stalwart's_ main sickbay, the irascible face of Nix's Alpha crew doctor glares down at him with bushy eyebrows drawn together and lips pursed in disapproval.

"Don't ask me, kid," McCoy drawls. "You're lucky to be alive after the stunt you pulled."

"Wasn't a stunt," Jim feels compelled to say. "Was an accident."

"Accident my ass!" the doctor grouses, subjecting Jim to another hypo in the neck and handing him a vomit bag. "There, that should clear your head. I've had enough puking in my sickbay to last me a lifetime."

Jim musters an offended expression. "Wasn't going to."

McCoy rolls his eyes. "I've been around long enough to know that face when I see it, but whatever keeps your mammoth ego intact."

"Hey," Jim croaks, even as the nausea and disorientation begin to clear.

"That's hey _sir_ or hey _doctor_ , you ungrateful whelp," he grumbles, using the bed controls to lift Jim into a more upright position. "Not that you care, but I've fixed both your broken legs, two fractured ribs, a punctured lung and a subdural haematoma." He raises a single eyebrow and somehow frowns with the other. "And all I get for thanks is your smart mouth!"

Jim glances down at his legs and raises a hand to his head. He feels the tingle of fresh tissue and bone regeneration to back up McCoy's claims and flushes. "How bad was it?"

"Bad."

Jim's eyes suddenly widen in panic. "Chapel? The others were suited, but she ..."

"Mild case of decompression, but that's nothing to write home about," the doctor interrupts gruffly. "Happens every other day of the week in this line of work."

Jim breathes a sigh of relief and wriggles gingerly in an attempt to sit up straighter. "So ..." he eyes the doctor warily, "am I fired or what?"

McCoy looks heavenward as though praying for strength. "Of all the stupid ... no you're not fired!" he barks, "and it truly boggles the mind that you, of all people, with your impressive brain and even more impressive test scores, would think so! Christ almighty!" He slaps his hand against his brow and hides behind it as though the stupidity of the world at large has finally got too much for him.

"Hang on," Jim frowns, feeling a little put upon. "I caused the accident. There are bound to be consequences."

McCoy emerges from behind his hand. "Caused it, did you?" he asks, "well of course you did! Silly me! Here was I thinking it might have had something to do with your green-blooded, stuck-up, perfectionist paragon of commanding officer pushing you too hard!"

"Lieutenant Commander T'Loren ..."

"Kept the whole of Beta suited up and in the field far longer than any other rotation," the doctor interrupts, yet again. "I also have it on good authority that she was particularly hard on you, Kirk."

Jim grits his teeth. The trend of this conversation has drifted onto dangerous ground and he's not quite sure what to make of it. It's not in his nature to bemoan the high standards of the service. He's more the laugh-and-flip-it-off-as-you-excel type of guy. It's true, he takes a perverse joy in beating every test Starfleet ever put in front of him. It might have something to do with the fact that nobody in his life every thought he'd measure up. It's just the way he's built, the way he's programmed. T'Loren is as tough as they come, but that only makes him more determined.

"Aw hell," McCoy sighs, staring at him with one hand on his hip. "Go on, get out of my sick bay, I know that look, too."

"I haven't got a look," Kirk scowls.

"Sure you don't." He wipes a hand down his suddenly tired face. "They get younger every year."

Jim levers himself carefully upright and lets his legs dangle over the edge. They throb rather excruciatingly but he swallows down his curse and slides his bare feet onto the cold floor, letting them take his weight a bit at a time. "What's that ... supposed ... to mean?" he gasps, unable to hide his pain.

"You," says McCoy, indicating his begowned, bedraggled and wobbly patient with sweeping gesture of his hypo, "are too smart to know when you're being stupid."

"Gee, thanks," Jim grins, somewhat spoiling the effect by having to reach out and steady himself as he almost topples over.

McCoy shoves a bottle of pills at him and manages to hypo him in the neck again as he does so.

"Ow!"

"Don't be such a baby!" the doctor snaps. "Now, it's light duties for seventy-two hours and I do mean _light_. Your shuttle's still under repair, so that rules out any more EVA time, but I expect you to show some common sense and stay out of the gym, rec room and anywhere else you can undo all my hard work, is that clear?"

"Crystal." Jim rubs at the last hypo location gingerly.

"Oh, and our illustrious Divisional Commander wants to see you, too," McCoy adds, almost as an afterthought. Then his eyes flick up and down and the bastard has the gall to smile. "If I were you, I'd change first."

The last shot has Jim feeling almost his usual self, so he musters up his best flirtatious smile and manages to approximate his usual swagger as he crosses the room to the uniform dispenser, gracing McCoy with an unabashed and uncensored view of his bare ass. "I don't know, doctor," he pulls a pair of blacks into his arms. "Wouldn't be the first time using all my natural talent got me out of a tight spot."

The doctor's sharp bark of laughter brings several nurses to an abrupt halt around the sickbay. "Now, that I can believe!"

Jim undoes the gown and pulls a shirt over his head. "Think it works on Vulcans?"

McCoy gives him a strange look, then raises his hand in imaginary toast. "Reckon you'd be the one to find out."

Now fully dressed, Jim carefully exits the sickbay with a smile on his face. McCoy can bluster all he wants, Jim thinks he knows what it's intended to achieve. His head is actually pretty clear of the guilt that had hit him along with his return to consciousness. Chekov is fun and Chapel is a sweetheart, but he has a feeling that it's Leonard McCoy who'll end up being a friend on this deployment. Jim's grin spills wider and he hides it from passing crew by ducking his head. Should be pretty interesting, chipping away at that crusty exterior.

  
-:-

  
Spock only has to devote a small portion of his concentration to the routine ship's reports. A human might count that as an advantage, but in this particular instance, it leaves far too much of him free to consider other matters. He has already assimilated several voice articles on subjects ranging from xenobiology to warp physics. He has taken a mental inventory of outstanding field promotions. Finally, he has considered and rejected several methods for dealing with the recent incident involving ED996's Beta crew.

It is this last issue to which his thoughts keep returning.

James Kirk has been a member of his division for less than a week, and already there are reports to file. He had approved Kirk's posting to his own crew rotation for both logical and illogical reasons. With Lieutenant Morrison vacating the Two position in Beta crew, there was an opening that needed to be filled. This was only logical. To fill the gap remaining after promotions with a Lieutenant possessing no EPAS experience, only basic training and a string of juvenile misdemeanors to his name, this was a personal favor to Christopher Pike - a man who had saved Spock's life more than once, so perhaps yielding to that request held an inherent logic not at first apparent.

Certainly, Kirk would not have been his first choice for the position of One on Beta crew. There were many promising contenders amongst the _Stalwart's_ floating pool, most of whom had credible experience and a demonstrable track record of following orders and keeping themselves and their charges from harm, whenever possible.

Kirk's posting to the _Enterprise_ had lasted less than forty-eight hours and had culminated with him in the brig for insubordination and then subsequently stranded on Vega when the ship went down. There was even the potential that had he not requested a transfer to EPAS, he would have found himself desk-bound or dishonorably discharged. Considering the fact that Starfleet was currently engaged in a war with the Romulans, their willingness to lose Kirk spoke volumes for their opinion of him. And yet, Pike made no secret of his partisanship.

Alone in his quarters, Spock indulges himself in a frown.

Most perplexing.

The door chime sounds.

"Enter."

The plassteel swishes aside to reveal Kirk standing awkwardly in the corridor. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

Spock stands smoothly and gestures him inside.

Kirk takes three quick strides to the desk and stands to attention, his eyes fixed over Spock's left shoulder. The door closes behind him, but neither notice. Kirk seems too preoccupied and Spock is busy with conjecture. He has expected defiance and insubordination. He has expected Kirk to rush into an explanation of why the incident during training could not be attributed to his actions. In short, he has taken Kirk's record to heart as well as committed it to memory and was anticipating a display of what his Terran superiors had called 'that typical Kirk attitude.'

Instead he gets a visibly bruised and remarkably pale Lieutenant standing to perfect attention.

"I wish to discuss the incident aboard ED996," Spock opens broadly.

"It was my fault, sir."

Spock feels one of his eyebrows jerk up involuntarily and turns his head aside to mask his instinctive surprise. "A most interesting perspective."

Kirk doesn't say anything, but he shifts from foot to foot.

"Please," says Spock, gesturing at the chair opposite his, "sit."

Kirk does so without a word. His posture is perfect, his hands clasped in his lap. Silently, Spock approves of this display of control.

For the first time since entering the room, Kirk meets his eyes. "Will there be a disciplinary hearing, Commander?"

Both Spock's eyebrows rise and he's powerless to prevent it or hide it. "I see no need for such measures. Is there additional information you wish to add to your incident statement?"

"Additional?" Kirk shakes his head. "No, sir. I just thought ..."

Spock gestures for him to continue.

"... I thought that considering the damage to the shuttle and the injuries to the crew, well ..." he clears his throat, "should I be packing my bags, sir?"

Spock settles a little more deeply into his chair. Fascinating. He spends approximately thirty seconds attempting to unravel the Lieutenant's logic and is unsurprised when he fails. He has long been aware of the human propensity for allowing guilt to cloud reason, but seldom has he seen a more illustrative example.

"Lieutenant Kirk, I have no plans to dismiss you from this service," he feels compelled to say.

"You don't?" he echoes, all courtesy of rank forgotten in his evident relief.

"Not at this time," he clarifies.

One small chuckle escapes Kirk and he swipes at his chin, the smile still tugging at one corner of his mouth. "This is my one get out of jail free card. I get it."

Get out of jail ...?

Ah.

Spock leans forwards, elbows on the desk, wondering why his efforts to make himself transparent are falling so short. By all accounts, James Kirk is an unusually intelligent human. It stands to reason that communicating his intent should be relatively effortless. Once again, he feels a flash of frustration with his non-native language. Standard is possessed of such imprecise terminology. Were this conversation to have been conducted in Vulcan, there would be no room for misinterpretation.

He tries again.

"Lieutenant Kirk, I am not dismissing you from this service, nor am I issuing you with a demerit, a demotion, a reassignment or instigating any other action that should be construed as punishment or allocation of blame." He raises an eyebrow deliberately this time. "Am I making myself clear?"

Kirk nods. "Sir."

"I have, however, scheduled a debrief for oh-seven-hundred hours tomorrow. I have requested that both Alpha and Beta crews attend for the purpose of discussing the incident and addressing any learning needs that arise. Should the discussion reveal any systemic shortcomings in the current orientation and training program, they will be presented ship-wide at the next in-service and disseminated throughout EPAS for the benefit of those in supervisory positions. I trust you will be sufficiently recovered to attend?"

"Of course," says Kirk, "Doctor McCoy's released me from sickbay."

Spock allows himself a hint of irony. "So I see."

Kirk hangs his head and nods in acknowledgment. Spock stands and makes his way around the desk. When Kirk notices, he pushes hurriedly to his feet. Spock stops short, realizing that Kirk has been hiding both his amusement and ... something else. The young man's strikingly blue eyes are swimming even though his face remains calm, outwardly the picture of polite attention.

Spock finds the dichotomy quite powerful.

Without quite knowing why, he reaches out and lightly rests a hand on Kirk's shoulder. Immediately, he's assailed by a maelstrom of emotion, overpowering _relief/determination/respect/and ..._ Spock snatches his hand away, turning the self-preserving movement into a salute to cover his discomfiture.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Kirk snaps back a perfect imitation of the gesture. "Thank you, sir."

He makes it to the door before the alarms sound the call for general stations. He turns, a question in his eyes. He's not on the active duty roster. Spock does a quick mental calculation of available staff and jerks his head in the direction of the hangar bay.

"With me, Lieutenant."

"Sir."

They set of at a perfectly paced run, keeping to the right of the illuminated white strip in the centre of the corridor. Ops techs and navigation officers pass them on the other side, all running. Half way to the shaft, the dull yellow glow of the amber alert switches to the bloody tinge of red. Spock pauses an intercom and depresses the button.

"Spock here, status report," he commands.

 _Distress signal received from Constitution Class Federation starship post Romulan attack. Crew complement four hundred plus. Escape pods non-functional. Warp drive non-functional. Environmental control failing. Approximate time to rendevouz, nine point two minutes, sir._

"Acknowledged."

 _Sir, Captain Taylor wishes to emphasise that it is of the utmost importance that the Excelsior's Captain or her second in command is retrieved alive. Orders straight from Starfleet Command._

"Understood."

Spock releases the switch and they run for the lift, making it just as the doors swish closed. Kirk packs in beside him. The lift is operating at full capacity and Spock is pressed against two other crew, but all he feels is a distant echo of that last emotion from Kirk; that gut-wrenching, brain-freezing _fear_.

The levels fly past in flickers of white light. The lift is filled with tension and adrenaline, not just bodies. Spock keeps his eyes dead ahead. He must be the still point, the fulcrum around which others move. Standing bare inches from the closed lift doors, he can feel everyone's eyes boring into the back of his head. They will all take their example from him.

He must make a quick decision about Kirk.

By all rights, he should be left behind. He is only cleared for light duty and, quite accidentally, Spock has discovered he is also severely emotionally compromised. He constitutes a potential danger to the mission. It is illogical to consider his deployment at this time.

Spock thinks of Christopher Pike. He thinks of Vulcan-that-was. Of the space jump that saved the High Council and the Katric Arc and the man standing behind him who made it.

He glances at Kirk in the second before the lift doors open.

He will make another illogical decision on behalf of this stranger.


	6. chapter 1.5

Once the lift doors open, Kirk takes off after Spock as fast as his legs can carry him.  He catches up well before the shuttle bay and their boots pound the grills in counterpoint.  It's the middle of the Alpha shift and every non-deployable crewmember flattens themselves against the bulkheads in response to Spock's terse "make way!"

With Nix out of commission and several crews consisting of a poor skill-mix, Jim is immediately struck by the unfamiliar chaos.  A couple of other shuttles are sidelined for repairs, but the _Stalwart_ still has more vehicles than she does persons to crew them.  Those shuttles with a full and experienced crew complement are already halfway through their preflight checklists and the sound of engines powering up to standby fills the air.  However, at least two dozen broken crews mill near the entrance, clearly unsure where best to apply their skills.

Spock assesses the situation in a heartbeat, then leaps lightly up the side of a gantry and onto the wing of a nearby shuttle.  "Attention on deck!"

Everyone freezes and turns smartly.

"Complete Alpha crews, continue as per protocol," Spock orders, "those remaining, form up by primary speciality."

The full shuttle crews have already turned back to their work, some now polarizing forcefields and cross-checking doors as they taxi towards the stern.  The rest of the crew manage to group themselves faster than Kirk would have imagined. 

Spock casts an analytical eye over the motley group, his face impassive.  "Those crews with three members present, step forward."

There is a flurry of movement.

"Please select your missing specialty, taking into account seniority and experience."

A doctor, a pilot and a point are all chosen and those newly completed crews scatter towards their vessels without needing a command from Spock.  
   
"If no other member of your crew is present, step forward," Spock says next.  The majority step forward and he frowns slightly.  The expression is gone in an instant as a new plan immediately takes the place of the former. 

"Lieutenants Ho, Devlin and Mackie."

Three others step forward just as McCoy and Uhura coalesce around Spock.

"Devlin, you have command of ED4767, Mackie, you have ED9411," he glances at the remaining specialties.  "Choose your crew."

Spock turns to the remaining officer.  "Lieutenant Ho, you have command of any spare shuttle you can find.  Uhura, McCoy," he snaps, "you are with her."  He turns an impossibly composed gaze to Kirk and says, "accompany me."

Momentarily too shocked to move, Jim has to jog to after Spock, who selects a medic and a pilot from those still awaiting orders and commands the others to 'locate and commence useful employment.'   The Vulcan's long stride eats up the distance and he's already leaped aboard a sparklingly new shuttle before Jim catches up.

"Jim Kirk," he says, offering a quick handshake to the medic and a nod to their pilot.

"Riley," says the doctor, and Jim's not sure if that's the guy's first name or last name.   

"Lioli Ahern," the young female pilot calls without turning around.  "You're a rookie, right?"

"Got it in one," Jim grimaces, throwing his body into the Point One harness and slamming the buckles into place.  Opposite him, Spock is doing the same, except his movements are calm and precise, with none of the adrenaline shake of Jim's.

Doctor Riley leans around from his fold-out bench and claps Jim on the shoulder.  "Just take it easy and talk to us, okay?  Talking it out forces you to think it through before you do it.  That way, worst you'll come back with is laryngitis and I've got a lozenge for that."

"Okay," Jim laughs.  "Thanks."

"No problem."

"All go for launch?" Ahern calls from the cockpit.

Spock glances around the main cabin and receives an immediate thumbs up from Jim and Riley.  "All go, green for launch," he says, his voice clipped and emotionless.

"Sir, yes sir," Ahern confirms, then she guns it.

Jim's head hits the headrest with a g-level he wasn't expecting as the combined engine thrust and slingshot from the forcefield spits their brand new shuttle out into space and right into the dissipating ripples of their warp trail.  Immediately, the vessel shudders and lurches about ten degrees minus-z.  Ahern compensates with a muttered curse and something starts to vibrate in the engine bay.

"Shuttle's a bit green, Commander," Riley observes.

Spock glances around the interior.  "This is a standard issue medevac shuttle," he says flatly.  "It does not differ in colour from any other."

There is a moment's silence and then Jim snorts.

Riley's head snaps round in horror and he can see Ahern's knuckles whiten on the controls.  Yes, Jim thinks, I did just laugh at our Divisional Commander, but it was _funny_.

Jim summons the courage to meet Spock's questioning gaze but can't interpret it.  "Figure of speech," he explains.

"Ah," says Spock, and his head snaps forwards again, leaving Jim to blink at his profile in consternation.   

He doesn't have long to study it, though, because Ahern's fingers are dashing across the communications controls and their EVA suits' earbuds are suddenly crackling to life.

 _... mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday mayday, we are going down, repeat we are going down.  Massive hull breach on decks ten, twelve, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, thirty through thirty seven.  Imminent loss of pressure, repeat we are about to lose pressurization.  All personnel in escape pods be advised pods are non-functional.  Red Alert, repeat Red Alert.  Mayday, mayday, this is the USS Excelsior, mayday ..._

Jim leans into the press of his harness, craning his neck around the bulkhead to get a look through the pilot's window.  The sleek shape of the _Excelsior_ is tumbling out of control.  Sharp, white puffs of venting atmosphere spring up along her crippled hull, sometimes igniting in a quick flash of flame.  Whole decks are flickering as system after system fails, slipping in and out of darkness, in and out of night.  It looks like a science project gone wrong, like a diorama he once made for his third grade science teacher that he threw together from scrap components foraged from his stepfather's garage.

"Holy shit," Jim breaths, half forgetting that his comm is on.  "What the hell could do that to a Constellation class starship?"

"Unknown."

Spock's succinct answer cuts through Jim's horror and snaps him back into the present moment.  
   
"Aye, sir."

Spock turns and makes eye contact with him, even as he addresses the pilot.  "Mister Ahern, fleet-wide broadcast, please."

"You're linked in, sir."

"Calling all EPAS shuttles, this is Divisional Commander Spock," he says carefully, his gaze steady on Jim and devoid of any expression.  "Standard approach vectors inadvisable.  Take individual trajectories and dock with port side bays.  Maximum dispersal.  Do not attempt to take on more than your regulation complement of survivors.  Additional personnel may be evacuated directly to the _Stalwart_ via transporter."

A cascade of acknowledgements follows in a myriad of voices, each betraying different levels of stress, but all in control.  Perhaps there is something in Spock's own manner that demands it, perhaps they are just really well trained.  Jim's never felt like so much of a fraud in his life.  Spock's eyes are dark and unreadable behind his visor, but the tilt of his head suggests a question.  Jim shakes his head, in denial of, or in response to his own inadequacies.  Not even he can tell.

This is no time to back out, turn tail and run away.  There's nowhere for him to go out here, not with his commanding officer a shuttle's width away, suited up and ready to go, so he makes himself a promise.  This one mission.  Just this one, then he'll resign.  There's go to be something he can do, someway he can make a difference, but if it's not Starfleet and it's not EPAS, he's fresh out of ideas.  But seriously, fuck this.  This is insane.  This is Vulcan all over again.   

The _Excelsior_ is spinning so fast that the starfield is a blur of light, nauseating and disorientating like a bad Academy food.  Ahern has mag-sealed them against a port docking bay but the mechanism is jammed tight.  Spock clips in to the safety wire and strides across the shuttle as though he's taking a pleasant stroll through the rec room.  The hull is moving under them and the stars above them, and Jim can't help but feel like vomiting.  He swallows convulsively and stares resolutely at the stubbornly closed hatch.

Then Spock is beside him, leaning around him, one arm braced above Jim's head and the other on the hand-hold near the atmo forcefield.  This close, Jim can see the concentration on his face, the urgency that was hidden at a greater distance.  His eyes are narrowed, sweeping brows drawn in together.  Suddenly he turns his head, pinning Jim in place with that unexpected intensity.

"I believe access may be gained via the external maintenance hatch.  Do you concur, Lieutenant?"

Jim involuntarily follows the direction of Spock's pointing finger.  Spock is right, and for a moment he forgets about the crazy carnival ride he seems to be on and nods, "yeah, that makes sense."  But then the logistics come crashing down around him. 

It's going to mean a space jump.

Spock is already clipped in and ready, so Jim makes good to join him.  The two of them slip easily through the forcefield and take their places on the runner.  The flex in their boot soles allows more traction, but he still isn't used to the feeling that there's nothing between him and space apart from polymer fabric, heating mesh and a visor.  His partially mended bones are throbbing in the cold of vacuum, his new, pink skin hypersensitive against the rub of the EPAS-thin EVA suit.  Perhaps, despite all his brash assurances to Bones, he should have gone to the rec room after all.

Eyes on the HUD, Spock green-lights them, then there's nothing but the twang of flexed quads, the silent terror of black trajectory and the teeth-rattling collision with the maintenance hatch.  They grab at each other, as well as the hand-holds, stabilising one another against the pull of their own momentum. 

 _Adrenaline_ , Jim thinks.  _I pushed off too hard._

Spock doesn't mention it, just sets to work on the code pad, his fingers nimble even when hampered by gloves.  It takes him no time at all to enter the complex cipher, broadcast along with all other command codes by a thankful _Excelsior_ crew within seconds of the _Stalwart's_ arrival on the scene.  The hatch belches a plume of atmo, then springs open, revealing a cramped airlock that thankfully still seems to be powered. 

At a gesture from Spock, Jim clambers in first, feet together, arrowed downwards, propelling himself with his arms.  Spock follows immediately, pulling the hatch closed firmly behind them.

The airlock cycles and the lights show green.

Spock puts his shoulder to it and they tumble out of the confined space into the leaden reality of full gravity.

"Environmental control is inconsistent," Spock observes, although he kept his feet perfectly despite the sudden impact of standard-g.  "Do not remove your helmet."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Jim says with fervour. 

"That will save considerable time."

He opens his mouth to explain, but Spock is already running down the corridor, tricorder in hand.  "Life signs ahead," he calls by way of explanation.

Jim whips out his own tricorder and snaps it into the wrist holder so he can read it and still have both hands free. 

The first crewman they come to is barely alive.  Frothy red blood spurts from her mouth to run down her chin and stain her gold command shirt.  There's a fist-sized hole where her liver should be and it's a fucking miracle she's still conscious.  Spock hunkers down with a limber bounce, running the tricorder over her despite appearances.

"Oh, be serious," she coughs out.  "Try C-deck ... the Captain ..."

"I assure you, we will save your Captain."  Spock states as though it were a certainty.

"Vulcans ... never lie."  The woman does her best to approximate a grin, but it comes off gruesome and macabre, her teeth crimson stained.  Even so, Jim can see that the benefit of Spock's words, far better than empty platitudes and reassurances regarding her own condition.  She knows she's dying, but Spock has given her tangible consolation.  Jim thinks that's pretty amazing.   

Then they're off again, her final wracking coughs growing faint behind them as they charge ahead towards the nearest access shaft.  Basic configuration on all Constellation class ships is the same.  Jim is momentarily grateful that he's taken the time to familiarise himself with the _Stalwart's_ layout, which is vaguely different from that of the _Enterprise_.  It's serving him well at the moment.

They skid to a halt at the access tube, knowing the turbolifts are less than reliable in the ship's present state.  Disdaining the rungs, Spock swings himself out into space by the ladder's sides, framing it with his feet and plummeting down into the flickering blackness of between-decks with only his gloves and boots for brakes. 

"Sonofabitch," Jim swears under his breath, knowing he doesn't have the strength to replicate the manoeuvre.  Instead, he clips in to the top rung and flips around, rope locked off behind his buttocks. 

"Kirk to Ahern, over."

 _Ahern here, go ahead._

"The Commander's just thrown himself down a fucking Jeffries, I'm about to follow," he pulls a face, "just at a slightly lower velocity."

 _Yeah, he'll do that Kirk, don't let it get to you.  Just go find him.  Remember, he's our Two, we need you to back him up._

"Kind of hard when he pulls shit like this."

 _Just catch up Kirk.  I'll keep this line open, keep talking to us._

Jim curses again and pushes off, letting some slack out through his suit's harness, absailing after his Two and hoping Spock isn't that far ahead.  Each impact of his feet against the sides of the tube sends flashes of agony through the remnant fractures in his legs.  Sweat springs up on his face and between his shoulders.  His suit struggles to compensate.  He tries not to think of parachutes above disintegrating desert planets.

C-deck arrives faster than he's anticipated and he falls on his ass in an undignified heap.  Spock is nowhere to be seen.  Jim hauls himself out of the tube and drops more carefully into the main corridor.  The lights are nonfunctional here and his headlamp activates automatically, which reveals Spock kneeling by a group of survivors, methodically pressing transponders against the transportable, sorting the whole from the broken, the living from the dead.

"Riley, I've got a visual on Spock," he comms in.

 _Acknowledged, Kirk_

"Doctor Riley," Spock says, activating his own comm with a press of his lapel.  "Six to beam up.  Stabilise then beam onwards, confirm?"

 _Riley here, Commander._   His voice sounds tinny on the wide channel.  _Six on their way.  Acknowledged._

Spock steps back for a second as all but one of the huddled living disappears in a swirl of light.  Then he's back on his knees in a flash, hands calmly probing the extent of the last man's injuries.  Jim kneels next to him in time to see Spock exchange the man's hands for his own.  In the split second where the wound is open, it sprays blood all over Spock's visor like a high pressure hose.  The man cries out in fear, but Spock is talking to him calmly, the words becoming audible as Jim's forces himself to focus.

"... condition is serious but stable," he's saying.  "There is no cause for panic.  The artery has been successfully clamped.  Further blood loss will be minimal.  I am now administering a mild sedative as it is necessary to lower your heart rate."

Jim surprises himself by having the hypo loaded and in Spock's hand before he's had a chance to realise what he was doing.  Those drills pay off after all.  Spock presses it against their patient's neck with a muted hiss and hands it back.  It's only now that Jim sees the pool of sticky human blood Spock is kneeling in and the open case of micro-lock clamps by his side.  The guy is damn lucky to be alive at all, but if Spock's telling the truth, then yeah, there's a good chance he's going to make it out of here now.

"Do you know the location of the Captain?" Spock asks as he calmly wipes the man's blood from his visor with one sleeve.

"He was helping the Chief Engineer with a blown coupling," the man says weakly.  "It's a narrow junction, about two or three intersections away."

Spock slaps a pressure bandage to the man's chest and a transponder to his arm, but before his hand reaches his lapel to order a beam-out, the man grabs at his suit, stopping him.

"EPAS, wait," he gasps, "the junction is tricky to find.  You'll need help."

Spock deliberates for a split second, then nods.  "Very well."

It's a good thing that Jim has all their gear repacked, because Spock gathers the patient into a shoulder hold and sets off at a dead run in the direction indicated.  Overwhelmed by the pace, Jim bolts after them, trying to ignore the way his boots slip and slide a little on the deck until most of the blood is off them.

About thirty seconds later the injured crewman calls a halt, and yeah, Jim is pretty sure they would have missed the junction on their first pass and been forced to turn back to retrace their steps.  The walls are shredded by shrapnel, flashing and sparking in the darkness.  The chaotic scene is illuminated in fits and starts, hard on the eyes, unforgiving on the imagination.  Still, it's Jim who spots the scrap of command gold in the far corner.

"There!" he calls, forgetting in his urgency that there's no need to shout over the comm.  Then, before he's had a chance to think about the risks, he ducks below a sparking conduit and pushes into the rubble. 

 _Kirk, what are you doing?  Let Spock take lead on this one, over._

"I can see him!"

"Lieutenant!" Spock calls into the flickering rubble.

"I can see him, sir!"

"Lieutenant, this area of the ship is structurally unsound.  Clip in!"

 _Kirk, listen to Spock.  Secure yourself first._

Jim obeys wordlessly, never taking his eyes from the slight rise and fall of that gold shirt as he takes a grapple from his harness and loops it around a nearby spar.  It's as if the _Excelsior's_ Captain might disappear if he stops looking at him for even a second, culminating in a figment of his adrenaline-fired imagination. 

"Spock to Ahern," comes the deep baritone over the comm.

 _Ahern here._

"One to beam up, category two, confirm."

 _I'm sorry, Commander,_ Ahern responds, her voice tight and stretched high.  _There's too much interference from the warp core.  Transporter is a no-go, do you copy?  We have no transporter capability, sir._

" ... Acknowledged.  Spock out."

Behind him, Jim can now hear the slower progress of Spock, hampered by the awkward weight of their guide, but then he reaches the body and his mind goes blank with shock.

His first coherent thought is that he's completely lost it, because it's _Sulu_.  The Sulu he jumped off an alien platform to save.  For a moment he's overcome by the memory of relief, the sensation of his chute's tethers straining under the load of their combined weight but holding, blessedly holding, slowing their descent so that the transporter techs have a chance to beam them out.   

Then Sulu blinks and opens his eyes and Jim has work to do.  He tears the medkit free of his belt and makes a quick pass with the tricorder all in one movement. 

" _Jim Kirk?_ "

"Hey, Hikaru," he says conversationally.  "How's things?"

"Oh, you know," Sulu sighs, then grimaces as Jim traces his hands over one thigh and finds the point where it's pierced through by metal.  He clenches his teeth, "same old, same old."

"I hear you," he nods, working quickly to staunch the bleeding with packs and foam and his goddamn hands.  He palms the small laser cutter and sets to work on the piece of plassteel that's pinning that leg to the deck.  At the point where the beam intersects the metal, Sulu's blood vaporises into a sickly pink steam.

The captain shifts slightly on the deck, attempting to help improve Jim's access.  "I heard you'd joined EPAS.  Never expected to need your help, though."

"Yeah," Jim nods but keeps his eyes glued to the path of the cutter.  "I guess nobody ever does."

"What made you switch?"

Jim thinks of that space-jump, of a fleet torn to shreds, of poor orders from on high, of lifeless floating bodies and planets imploding in an abortive scream.

"The dental, mostly."

Sulu laughs, tossing his dark head back against the deck.  His hand finds Jim's knee and he squeezes, hard.  "What now, Jim?"

"Now, okay, so this is going to hurt," he warns, knowing it's inadequate but not having anything else to offer.

"I figured," Sulu replies through clenched teeth.  "Just do it, already."

"On three."

"Stop being such a fucking tease," Sulu laughs unsteadily.

So Jim slips both arms under his skewered leg and hauls sharply upwards, towards the section he's cut away, like pulling meat off a shishkabob.  Sulu screams, of course, who the fuck wouldn't, but despite the fresh run of liquid heat over Jim's gloved hands the man is no longer pinned to the deck of his own ship.

"I got you," Jim murmurs, pressing and packing and wielding hypos as fast as he can.  "I got you, man."

"Yeah," Hikaru nods weakly, his face pale and clammy in the random flashes of light, "just like last time."   

Spock arrives just in time to see the Captain and the Lieutenant clasp hands so that Jim can haul Sulu into a sitting position. 

"Zero spinal," Jim offers without prompting, "category two, stabilised, safe for transport, sir."

"Acknowledged, Lieutenant," Spock nods, then turns to Hikaru.  "Captain Sulu, it is not possible to achieve transporter lock on our current position due to imminent warp core breach.  Where is the closest ..."

He gets no further.

The whole hull behind them suddenly explodes out into space.

Spock flings out a gloved hand and Jim grabs it, their fingers close around each others' wrists.  Spock's legs fly out from underneath him and Sulu lifts from the deck and crashes into their chests.  That leaves Jim barely enough time to register that Spock has used his clip-in line to secure both their patients to himself, as well as to the infrastructure.  Still, if Jim lets go, Spock will play out to the end of his line, just far enough to slap against the razor-sharp edges of what's left of the outer hull.  Spock's other arm is wrapped around their guide, pressing a breathing mask against the man's face.

The sound is gone in an instant, along with the air and the heat.  Sulu's mouth opens in a silent scream and Jim can see the small capillaries begin to explode in his eyes.  Before he can think about it, Jim pops the seal on his helmet and opens the visor in Sulu's face.  The Captain takes a deep, painful breath of frozen air, hardly enough, but his cheeks flush pink and the tears don't freeze in his eyes.

Of course this means that Jim is now totally fucked, too.

His suit is spewing out a thin, rapidly diminishing breathable vapour, barely enough to keep either of them oxygenated even as it does nothing against the decompression.  The thin polymer fabric is pressed tightly against him like a wet swimsuit, heating coils working overtime.  It's not enough.  It's nowhere near enough.  It's like every molecule in his body has just developed an overpoweringly urgent desire to be elsewhere.

His suit gives one last cough of air at them both and then Jim's lungs are on fire.  His chest is about to burst and black spots close in before his eyes.  Spock's hand is like a vice around his wrist.  He opens his own fingers and tugs.  Spock refuses to let go.  Jim wants to yell at him but that last breath in his lungs is precious and there's no air to carry the sound to his comm mic anyway.

He yanks harder, desperate now, knowing he has only split seconds.

Then it's like Spock suddenly gets it, because not only does he release Jim, but his hand flashes with his own laser cutter and sets them all free.  With the last vestiges of strength in his body, Jim pushes off from the nearest object as hard as he can, Sulu still clutched firmly to his chest.  Spock co-operates, using his well-oxygenated Vulcan strength to propel them even faster out into the depths of space, away from the _Excelsior_ and the interference of her unstable warp core.

They fly through the rent in the hull and spiral out into the black.

Sulu has lost consciousness, but he weighs nothing here and Jim's frozen arm couldn't let go even if he wanted to.

Jim fights the burn as long as he can, then his body's own instinct force him to expel his last lungful of air.  He convulses once.  Twice.  It's impossible to draw the nothingness into himself, but his body tries anyway.  How long has it been?  Seconds?  Feels like hours.

Then there's a flash and a blur and his skin is burning like fire.

For a second he thinks the warp core has blown, but then gravity settles in around him and his bleeding eyes have a moment to register the inside of a medevac shuttle before Spock obscures his view.

The Vulcan snaps his visor up and uses his teeth to tear off his gloves, not bothering to undo the fastenings.  Thin lines of green blood blossom on his wrists, close enough for Jim to see as those hot hands tilt his head, support his jaw, burning into his frozen flesh.  Spock's face blocks out the light and Jim has a moment of confusion, but then an expelled breath of second-hand air is forced into his lungs.   

Spock pulls back, presses hot fingers against his carotid.

Jim wants to tell him that one breath is not enough, that his body has forgotten how to do this, but he must know that because he leans in to give another breath, then a third.

It's then that Jim gasps, pulls in one for himself, ignores the pain because this first breath of his own is richer in all the things that he needs.  Spock calls out something that contains the words 'Riley' and 'immediately' and 'order.'  He can't catch the rest through the ringing in his ears.  Then there's an oxygen mask against his face and when he takes another breath he's almost giddy.  Spock is playing a scanner over his chest, which is followed by another device that makes his lungs tingle inside him, and you really shouldn't be able to feel your lungs like that; it's beyond weird.

Jim can feel tears running down his face.  He raises a shaky hand, but it's still gloved and covered in other men's frozen blood so he lets it fall again.  Spock notices and uses his free hand to complete the task, pressing the thumb gently into the hollow of each eye and wiping outwards.  When he pulls back and rests that hand on his knee, it's now red with blood as well as green with it.

Jim tries to thank him, but all he can manage is a grunt.

"One moment," Spock says calmly, reaching for something.  Then he injects a vial of liquid into the oxygen line feeding Jim's mask and his throat burns hotter for a second, choking him, then goes blessedly numb. 

Spock lifts one of Jim's hands and unclasps the glove, baring it and settling it on the mask.  Jim's fingers refuse to obey and his hand hits the transporter pad with a numb thud.  Spock takes that same hand and firmly, patiently, he shapes the fingers in place.  This time they stay there.  Spock pushes to his feet and disappears.

 _No_ , Jim thinks, _don't go_.

But then he's back, sinking into a graceful crouch on the transporter pad.  He reaches out, parting Jim's eyelids with finger and thumb, then lets two drops of some warm liquid fall into the eye before releasing it.  He repeats the process with the other eye, once again thumbing away the mess as Jim tears up and sneezes as the drops hit his sinuses and trickle down into the back of his throat. 

He coughs and tries to push upright.

"Inadvisable at this time," Spock tells him.

When Jim persists in trying to get vertical, Spock tuts slightly under his breath and lifts him effortlessly into suited arms.

 _Well shit_ , Jim thinks, head lolling against Spock's chest, _this is fucking awkward_.

Spock settles him sideways into a bench seat opposite the medical station.  He clips the harness into Jim's EVA suit, securing him, then jams a large vacuum-pack of something behind his shoulder, propping him upright.  As a final touch, Spock breaks open a shiny silver thermal blanket and efficiently covers him with it.

He pauses for a second to survey his handiwork and consult the scanner again, nods once and turns away.

Jim suddenly realises it's all over and he's going to live.  It's only as Spock sanitises his hands and shoulders and steps in beside Doctor Riley that he remembers both _Excelsior_ crewmen are going to be even worse off.

Jim sits quietly on his bench and breathes.  He watches Riley and Spock work.  They're unfamiliar with each other and it shows, but Spock is a keen observer and is soon anticipating Riley's needs as he transfers his attention from Sulu to the other crewman in quick succession.  The basic monitors above the two biobeds quickly abandon the red zone and start to flicker from amber to green, but with increasingly more green showing across the board. 

They're going to live, too.

"Approaching shuttle bay doors," Ahern calls from the cockpit.  "Prepare for docking."

Riley straps into the small fold-out seat between the biobeds.  Its three point harness is cleverly designed to ensure he can still reach the majority of the controls above each patient.  
   
"Holy shit, Kirk," the doctor exclaims with wide eyes.  "Holy fucking shit, no one's going to believe that happened."

Jim manages a twitch of his eyebrows and keeps breathing deeply through his mouth, his nose still being too numb for such activities.

Spock acknowledges Ahern and crosses the cabin to Jim's bench.  He straps in to the other free seat, then reaches out to press the back of his hand against Jim's brow.  His skin still feels alien-hot, but Spock makes a slight approving sound and withdraws.  Jim gives his feet an experimental wiggle and realises that yeah, he's a lot better than he was a few minutes ago.

They bounce lightly on the deck and an engineering tech is running beside them as they coast to a halt, leaping aboard the port runner without even waiting for them to come to a full stop.  The forcefield pops and the sound of organised chaos floods the shuttle.  People are shouting to be heard, boots are drumming on the deck, hyposprays hiss and metal clanks against metal as command of the situation is transferred to the _Stalwart's_ highly trained medical crew.

"Got yourself a dodgy aft stabiliser," the tech comments, jumping aboard and making a beeline for the engine bay without so much as a glance at the Doctor, patients or Points.

"Don't I know it," Ahern calls after him.  "She's sluggish on the rotationals, too."

"Spock!" comes an angry voice.  

"Doctor McCoy," the Commander acknowledges, snapping free of his harness and rising to his not inconsiderable height.

Bones shoulders his way past the two junior doctors who preceded him, his face an ugly mix of anger and relief.  He marches right up to Spock and shoves a hand-held scanner in his face.  "What in the blue blazes were you doing in hard vacuum, you moron?"

"It was necessary to effect our extraction," Spock explains, with considerable patience for a Commander who's just been abused by a subordinate.  "Lieutenant Kirk formulated a plan which ..."

"Oh this is _your_ fault, is it?" McCoy rounds on him with narrowed eyes.  "I thought I told you to _rest!_   Listen you young jackass, some of us have been in this game long enough to realise that EPAS isn't about daring escapes from the clutches of death, it's about doing things by the book and keeping each other safe!  I'm not quite sure who thought it was a good idea to let any of you Nix people go racing off into the thick of things while I collected dust in my bunk, but there are going to be words!  Last thing we need is some goddamn _hero_ in this ..." he trails off as the scanner in his hand bleeps and whirs after being pointed at Jim like a weapon.  "What the devil happened to you?"

Jim finds himself momentarily speechless at McCoy's scathing tone.

Spock insinuates himself neatly into the pause in conversation.  "The Lieutenant has experienced severe decompression.  I have treated his primary symptoms and he appears to be stable."

"Stable my ass!" Bones growls, leaning in closer with the scanner.  Whatever he sees, it softens his manner somewhat.  "What'd you do?  Pop your visor 'cause environmental control seemed stable and forget to shut it again?"

Jim considers telling the full story, but he has a feeling that's going to make McCoy mad again and he's just not up to that kind of scary right now.  "Um," he nods instead, "something like that."

"Hmm," McCoy grumbles.  "Well, you'll need a little tissue regen and Spock's rush job on your alveoli is going to sting like a bitch for a few days, but you're one lucky sonofabitch, you know that?"  He straightens and then unexpectedly cuffs Kirk behind one ear.  "Keep your goddamn helmet on!  That's what it's for!"

"Yes, doctor," he agrees meekly, but he's watching Spock out of the corner of his eye.  The Commander is helping Riley and the medics load Sulu and the other crewman onto stretchers, but those dark eyes slide his way every now and then.  For a split second, they lock and hold with his own.  Jim imagines he can see approval there.  A pleasant warmth spreads through him at the thought, thawing him a little further.  It's the first time in a long time he's cared what an authority figure thinks of him.  It's all too easy to recall the disappointment he felt the instant he realised what kind of man captained the _Enterprise_. 

The smile slips from his face, erased by the memory of a battle that was lost for no good reason.  Idolizing your superiors is dangerous.  Still, seeing Spock in action had been all kinds of awesome, that was indisputable, and it was possible to respect a person's abilities without putting them on a pedestal. 

Spock turns away and jumps lightly down through the open hatch.  He has duties as the Divisional Commander that come into effect the second his own shuttle's demands are satisfied, so it's Bones that grabs Jim by the elbow and hauls him into a sitting position.

"Now, hold your horses," the doctor warns.  "You're all screwy inside just now."

Jim's heart is pounding, trying to adapt as all the blood rushes to his frozen legs.  "That a technical term, Bones?"   

"Don't backsass me," he growls, but doesn't protest the new nickname.  Instead, he reaches out one reassuring hand and holds Jim's hair off his face so he can focus on breathing.

Eventually, his heart settles down and his lips stop tingling.  With a nod from McCoy, he levers himself carefully to his feet.  The doctor watches him intently, eyes narrowed, but he stays upright. 

"Good to go?"

McCoy rolls his eyes.  "Only place you're going is straight to sickbay.  Now get."

Jim offers a shaky salute and uses the hand-holds for support as he steps out of the door and into the hangar, catching his reflection in the shiny hull plating and grimacing.  It's not pretty.  He gets about ten steps away from the shuttle before he knows he's in trouble.  His feet might be back on solid deck, but the world still feels like it's moving, shuddering, jerking around him.  The drill platform flashes before his eyes.  _Geysers of flame.  Free-falling.  The ground reaching up to claim him.  A planet, an entire planet of peaceful people destroyed, obliterated, vanished ..._

He staggers, falls to his knees, barely gets there in time and empties his stomach all over the polished deck.  Everyone springs back, exclaims softly, part surprise, part disgust, and it only adds to Jim's misery.  He's hot and cold at the same time.  There's a ringing in his ears and his suit is suddenly too tight, choking him.  Sweat breaks out on his face, between his shoulder blades, and he's absolutely certain he's going to pass out.  He's tugging at the collar, fingers scrabbling at the seam in panicked desperation.   

Then, out of the blue, there's a firm hand on his shoulder.  _McCoy_ ,he thinks, _please don't bitch me out just now_ , but he's wrong.

Spock drops to one knee.  "Doctor Riley?"

Riley suddenly moves into Jim's field of vision.  He can see the man's blush, his embarrassment that the DivCO had to remind him of his duties.  But then there are intrusive hands on Jim's face, probing fingers at his throat and he bats them away, ashamed and suddenly angry.

"No," he rasps through the acid taste in his mouth, "don't need a doctor."

"Refusing medical aid is illogical.  You are unwell."

Jim risks a glance at Spock.  His usually orderly hair is plastered to his head and sticking up at angles, disarrayed by the hasty removal of his own helmet.  The hood of his suit is pushed back, revealing the points of his ears.  He looks more alien than ever, but somehow, he knows that only Spock can understand him.  The Commander reaches around and deftly undoes Jim's collar one-handed.

"Please," Jim whispers, for Spock's ears only.  "I just need a moment."

The Commander regards him carefully.  A bead of condensation makes its lazy way from his hairline to his jaw, a testament to rapid changes in temperature they've both been subjected to.  This close, Jim can see that his eyes aren't actually black, but brown instead.  They're steady and measuring. 

Jim swallows. 

Spock nods slowly, eyes flicking to Riley, who doesn't need to hear the order.

The crowd melts away, leaving the two of them kneeling on the deck.  Spock sits back on his heels, the gentle but unrelenting pressure of his hand forcing Jim to do the same.  It's easier to sit like this, to close his eyes and cope with the spinning.  He hears the clank and splash of someone dealing with the mess he's made on the deck, and finds himself both grateful and embarrassed all over again.

Spock's silence is uncanny.  Any human would be asking questions by now.  What happened?  What's going on with you?  Why'd you lose it like that?  But not Spock.  For the first time since the beginning of this deployment, Jim is powerfully grateful to be in the presence of a Vulcan.   

"Thanks."

Spock doesn't say anything, but he raises one hand, palm down, in an abortive and very human gesture that say's clearly _don't mention it_.  He cuts himself off halfway though, placing the hand firmly back on his thigh.  The fingers flex as though holding on.   

"Your gratitude is unnecessary," he says quietly.

"Well, you've got it anyway," Jim tells him, taking a deep breath.  "You didn't have to push off like that.  Your suit was still sealed, you had a mask for that crewman and you know that Ahern or Ops would have modulated the transporter frequency in another few seconds.  You could have just let me go."

Spock glances at him, then back at the place where his hands sit on the stained fabric of his EVA suit.  There is no trace of blood on them now.  He washed it off in order to assist Riley, but there are shallow striations around each wrist, scabbed over in a deep forest green.

"You saved my life."  Jim shrugs at him, because really, it's like Spock doesn't even get it.

"As you saved the life of Captain Sulu."

Then again, perhaps that's all that needs to be said.  There's a certain balance in it, after all.  They share a quiet moment, both watching the _Stalwart_ crew move about the hangar with practiced efficiency despite the innate chaos of the setting.  Eventually, Spock shifts beside him.

"Come," he says.  "I have additional duties to discharge.  I will ensure your arrival at sickbay on my way to the bridge."

"No," says Jim, shaking his head.  "You don't have to do that."

Spock gives him a stern look, one that's suddenly all Commander.  It makes Jim wonder where the hell all the 'sirs' and 'lieutenants' went.

"Okay," he says quickly, "thank you, sir."

Spock nods and rises nimbly to his feet.  Jim makes a bit of a hash of it, but at least he gets vertical under his own power.  The Commander precedes him out of the hangar.  He's stopped every few turns to receive a report, sign a PADD or answer a question.  He's unfailingly polite, always helpful and really quite patient when faced with the human propensity to babble in times of stress.  It's not until he drops Jim off at sick bay and promptly banishes all the other hangers-on that Jim begins to suspect it may have simply been a ploy to give Jim a chance to keep up.

Bones tells him he's put a hairline fracture back through one of the recent breaks, and also that he's an idiot.  Then he wants to know why the hell Jim is smiling.


	7. chapter 2.1

Jim thinks it's a little strange that it's Lieutenant Ho who's the one who visits him in sickbay.

It's not that he doesn't _like_ Ashe, far from it. He's had the chance to rub shoulders with her in briefings, because she's on the Alpha crew as Spock's Point One. Ashe's smart and cute and sort of terrifyingly intelligent; the kind of girl he's always attracted to but never makes a move on.

She turns up the first day, looking all out of place in her off-duty clothes and slumps into a chair by his bedside.

"So," she says, "exactly how many lives do you think you saved yesterday?"

And Kirk is left gaping like a fish out of water or a carnival attraction. "What?"

"I mean to say, I know you scored a few saves, but from what I hear you nearly killed the DivCO. You can't do that, you know. People won't stand for it." She frowns at him, a small furrow puckering her smooth, round face. "Waving Spock's mortality in our face, that's not okay."

Jim levers himself up onto one elbow and processes this. "Excuse me?"

"Spock came to the debrief today looking like he hasn't slept yet and there were cuts on his hands. We all know he was in hard vacuum."

He eyes her warily, like he would a crazy person. "And this is my problem, how?"

"You were there with him," Ashe says firmly. "You were supposed to have his back. You were his Point One." She punctuates each sentence with a prod from her index finger. "You don't want to face this Division if Spock buys it on your watch. You sure as hell don't want to face me."

"Are you _threatening_ me? Really?"

"Oh no," she shakes her head and smiles at him, her black bob spinning. "Far from it. I like you. You've got balls. I don't want to see you hoisted by them because you mistakenly thought that some stranger's life was more important than the DivCO's. Hence this little conversation."

"Okay, wait," Jim says, because this whole thing is entirely too messed up for his anaesthetic-addled brain. "You _are_ threatening me. This is unbelievable. I know EPAS policy is always to value the life of field personnel above potential saves. That just makes sense. The more of us out there, the more of them are going to get saved. But what you're talking about," he frowns in confusion, "that's different."

"Yes," Ashe nods, her dark eyes calm and accepting. "It's totally different."

"It's double standards."

"You're damn right it is."

Jim just stares at her, too surprised by her capitulation to know how he feels about Spock being that important - the center of this little world he's signed on to.

"Look," says Ashe, "you're new here, so you don't get it yet, that's cool, none of us do at first." She reaches out and pats his hand. "But until you do, take my word on it. Spock's more important that a save, he's more important than me, and he sure as hell is more important than your sorry ass."

"Listen, I'm not so sure ..."

Ashe silences him with a dismissive wave. "Don't even try to tell me you're quitting. We all try it after the first time we eat vacuum, get cooked or stranded. If that fireball during exercises didn't scare you off then you're not about to walk away after your first two saves. Not you. I know your type."

"Oh yeah?" Jim grates out, off-balance and finding solace in the familiarity of anger. "What type is that?"

Ashe bares her teeth in a feral grin. "My type."

She stands and hauls on her black undershirt, arching her back so that the light above his biobed strikes her olive skin. "See that?" she asks, twisting so the thick, pale slab of scar tissue glistens sickly. "Got that the day Sally Morrison died. You never met her, but she used to run Point for Spock when he had the Beta team. Three shuttles went down on Odesyus ... you remember Odesyus, right?" she glances at him, waiting for his nod before continuing. "Well, let me just say that it was more of a shit storm than you'd ever read in the newscasts, and leave it at that."

She lets her shirt fall and resumes her seat, knowing she's got Kirk's full attention.

"The records will say it was the Narada that shot us down, but it was friendly fire. Shit, you'd have to be stupid to believe it was that son of a bitch, Nero," she shakes her head. "Those splinter bombs would have ripped right through us. Federation phasers just knocked out our engines and planetary gravity did the rest."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Just shut up and learn something," she snaps. "Sally was the first out of the hatch. That was her job. She was the senior Point One. None of us knew there was a Romulan outpost on that moon. How could we?" Some of Ashe's despair leaks into her voice and her eyes grow sad. "They didn't even bother with hand weapons, just lobbed a few energy grenades at us and shut up shop."

"Damn, Ashe ..." Kirk's voice is suddenly small despite the sickbay's echoes.

"I know right?" she nods. "You ever seen one of those things close up? It's pretty much like being at the centre of your own personal nova. My entire crew bought it straight up. Three out of the four in the other shuttle had fatal burns, and the other was blind and concussed. The blast wave knocked me flat against a superheated hull and you've seen how that worked out for me, but Sally ..." Ashe clears her throat, "Sally was in a bad way."

Silence reigns for a few moments. Jim pushes himself fully upright, wondering how horrifically Sally Morrison died to warrant an admission like that from this hard bitten veteran. He's too involved in the story to care that somewhere amongst it all, Ashe is trying to tell him that Spock is sacred, or something.

"What happened?"

"Spock happened."

Jim knows he should be fighting the urge to roll his eyes but Ashe's fill with tears and he's moved despite his natural cynicism.

"Kirk, you've never seen anything like it," she whispers, staring into the middle distance. "She was screaming. Her hair was gone, eyes hanging out, EVA suit on fire, skin melting through like dripping fat, the smell was ..." she pauses to swallow convulsively. "Spock ran right up and tackled her into the lake. My back hurt like a bitch, but I made it over to them, first aid kit and all, for all the good it would have done her. She was crying, holding onto him, asking him, begging for it. She was a mess, a real mess."

Ashe turns her head away and Kirk finds that any desire to disparage this memory has well and truly evaporated. When she turns back to look at him, her face is simultaneously horrified and joyous. It takes something inside him and twists it, viciously. He can't get any air.

"After he did her, he looked right at me, dead calm with the phaser still in his hand and said, 'you have command, Ensign Ho,' then he pulled Sally's body out of the lake and went after those bastards."

"After the Romulans?"

"Yep."

"How many were there?"

"Four that we saw."

"How is it that he's still alive?" Jim demands, doing the math in his head and boggling at the odds.

Ashe tilts her head at him, suddenly calm despite the tears running down her face. "You ever heard of _Ashv'cezh?_ "

"No," he admits. "Should I have?"

"He's the Vulcan god of death, part of the triptych worshipped in the years before Surak. Literally it means 'a revenge worse than death.' Spock has a statue in his quarters. It's fucking terrifying, but believe me when I say that it doesn't come close to the Commander that day."

There's a beat where Jim extrapolates, then, "now you're shitting me."

"Four hours," Ashe nods. "And it turned out there were five of them."

"One Vulcan against five Romulans? Five _armed_ Romulans? EPAS only gives basic combat training and I've seen first hand how useless the phasers they give you can be. That's just ..."

Ashe stands and tucks herself in, using one sleeve to wipe roughly at her face. "If you're ever in his quarters, ask him to show you his Romulan disruptor collection. There are five of them all jammed up with sand."

"Sand?"

She shrugs. "We used them to excavate a shelter in the lee of the shuttle. Lived there four days until things settled down enough that the Federation allowed more EPAS in for search and rescue. He got up the next morning and buried Sally on the high ground overlooking the lake. Her parents were so grateful they left her there, where Spock had put her. Where he'd protected her, even though she was gone."

Ashe turns and flicks the curtain aside, preparing to leave Kirk to his cubicle.

"Wait!" he calls, halting her. "The other crew member, did they make it?"

She blinks at him, almost Vulcan-calm. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is the fact that you better damn well have Spock's back, because that's the fucking _least_ he'd do for you."

The curtain swishes closed behind her.

Jim stares at it for a long time, feeling awed and pissed off and sceptical all at once, because fuck, looking up to people has never really worked out for him in the past. He's never been a believer in some people being more important than others. A life is a life, simple as that, but the sight of Spock in action today, the memory of being resuscitated as he was on the brink, it all coalesces around Ashe's testimony and a shiver runs up his spine.

No he won't.

He just won't go there again.


	8. chapter 2.2

It's two full days before McCoy releases him from sickbay this time. Jim can't really blame him considering what happened the last time he got told to take it easy. His only consolation is that Sulu is in the bed next to him and regains consciousness at the end of his first day of confinement.

Jim risks getting out of bed to hold the young Captain's hand as his eyes flicker open. There's a flash of recognition and a grateful squeeze of his fingers for his trouble.

"Jim ..."

"Jesus Christ, you look awful."

Sulu starts to laugh, which makes him cough, which sets off all kinds of alarms and brings Chapel running because it's Beta shift and McCoy is thankfully absent. She fusses with various machines and takes several readings, but does them without commenting on the fact that her patients are holding hands. If she gives them a sideways look, it certainly doesn't bother Jim. There's a time and a place and if he were hitting on Sulu it damn well wouldn't be in a sickbay. Well ... at least not until both of them were properly conscious. He just knows what it's like to wake up alone after you thought you were dead. Company makes all the difference.

"Don't keep him awake long," Chapel scolds, her pert face scrunched into a frown. "And for goodness sake, get some rest yourself. You were hardly better off than he was, for all that you walked off that shuttle."

Jim makes his promises and looks suitably chastised, at least until her back is turned, then he rubs his knuckles enthusiastically on Sulu's scalp hard enough to make him yelp.

"What was that?" Chapel snaps.

"Nothing!" Jim calls back, too busy grinning at his friend to turn around.

"Big tough guy, eh?" Sulu croaks. "Taking advantage of a wounded man."

"You're not hurt, you're just lazy," Jim tells him fondly.

"You sound like my mother."

"Dude, that was low."

They grin at each other and Jim pulls up a chair.

"So what the hell? You're a captain now?" he launches, tactlessly.

"I know," Sulu nods. "Surprised me, too, but Jim, things are pretty tight in the Fleet. Don't know what it was like when you left, but it's definitely worse now. I think I only got the _Excelsior_ because there was literally nobody left standing in front of me. I'm not sure how to feel about that, especially now that I've lost her. Maybe I just wasn't ready." He wipes a hand over his suddenly pale face. "My God, Jim, I've lost her."

Kirk grips his hand tighter and looks away as Sulu swipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his medical gown. When he clears his throat, Jim judges it safe to look up. Sulu meets his gaze stolidly, suddenly very much a Captain.

"How many, Jim?"

He doesn't need to ask for clarification. "Ninety seven."

The muscles in Sulu's jaw bunch and then relax. "Ninety seven," he echoes flatly. "Out of over four hundred."

"It's not your fault."

"Who's fault is it, then?" Sulu demands, the crack of bitter resentment in his voice. "She was my ship, Jim. They were my crew."

"They were impossible odds."

"What would you know about it?" Sulu snaps, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not an idiot. You take the sector we found you in, plot it against your warp trajectory, listen to a newscast and it's pretty clear where you've been."

"I told Starfleet intelligence it was obvious," he sighs. "They didn't listen."

"Don't worry, I won't say anything. Not that they'd listen to me if I did." It's Jim's turn to be bitter.

"Hey," Sulu says, suddenly soft, freeing his hand to grip Jim's shoulder. "Vega wasn't your fault. You were just a Lieutenant Jim, and you tried, you really tried."

"For all the good it did the _Enterprise_."

They sit together awhile, absorbed in the memory of that horrific mission. Jim shivers, recalling the chill of the ocean and the metallic taste of seawater and his own blood in his mouth. Suddenly, he remembers that Sulu is someone he can confide in.

"Hey, you'll never guess," he begins eagerly, eyes alight. "You remember the EPAS Point who rescued me, Walters and Emaco on that mission?"

Sulu frowns in thought and Jim makes hurrying motions with his hands, anxious to get to the punchline.

"I remember you telling me about the rescue, but not much about the Point," he says finally.

"The same guy is now my Divisional Commander."

"No way!"

"Weird, huh?"

"Weird doesn't even begin to cover it," Sulu agrees, eyes saucer wide. "Have you spoken about it?"

"About Vega?" Jim shakes his head. "Nah, I don't think he remembers. Surely he would have said something if he had."

"Jim, wasn't he a Vulcan?" Sulu asks patronisingly. "They have photographic memories. Besides, what's he going to say? Oh hey, remember that time I dragged your half-drowned sorry ass out of a sea? Yeah, those were good times."

"Fuck you," Jim grins, but the thought lingers in the back of his mind, refusing to budge. What if Spock _does_ remember? Does it matter? It had crept up on Jim like a sense of deja vu, unacknowledged at the fringes of his consciousness until Sulu's face had put everything in context. It seemed the universe was conspiring to make him take notice of Spock.

"Have you heard where they're planning to send you? Do you think you'll have to take a demotion? There just aren't that many ships out here anymore."

"Jim," Sulu says slowly. "I lost my ship. They're going to court martial me. I'll be lucky to keep my commission."

"But that's insane! They send you to babysit something right under Nero's nose and ... Hikaru, it wasn't your fault!"

"When has that ever mattered?" Sulu sighs, sounding very tired for his young age. "When has that ever counted for anything?"

Jim thinks to himself that it would matter in EPAS, that Spock knows the difference between an honest mistake and an act of negligence and Pike would back him up, but he doesn't say anything, just holds Sulu's hand again as the younger man drifts back into the deep slumber of the healing.

-:-

Jim's released later that afternoon and he thanks his lucky stars it's Chapel who does it. He can just imagine the angry monologue and flurry of painful hypos he'd receive if it had been Alpha watch and McCoy was around. In fact, he's so keen to get out of there before change of shift that he almost collides with Commander Spock in the doorway.

"Oh, sorry!" Jim exclaims, clutching at the jamb to slow himself.

Spock gives him the once over, hands neatly confined behind his back, but Jim swears there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Am I to understand that you are gratified to be returning to duty?"

"You have no idea," Jim replies with feeling, grinning. "I've spent the last half hour watching the clock, hoping like hell that Chapel can get her paperwork done before McCoy shows up. Now, don't get me wrong," he holds up a hand as though Spock would interrupt him, as though Spock is prone to that kind of thing, "I really, really like him, just not with a hypo in his hand."

Spock's lips may have twitched or Jim may have imagined it.

"The doctor is known to be rather enthusiastic in his administration."

"You don't say."

"Indeed, I just have," Spock corrects him.

He's on the verge of explaining the misunderstanding when Spock steps past him, eyes downcast and lips pressed primly together, but Jim is certain, dead set certain, he's being laughed at.

He waits until Spock is well out of earshot, stepping behind the curtain that surrounds Sulu, before he allows himself a rueful grin. He thinks back to their first awkward conversation, to Spock's blank-faced incomprehension of every single one of his colloquialisms, and he shakes his head.

"You bastard," he whispers to the empty corridor. "I'm onto you now."

-:-

Spock frowns as he leaves James Kirk behind at the doorway. It is unlike him to banter, especially with an unknown entity. He is beginning to have suspicions that Admiral Pike had ulterior motives in making sure he took a special interest in this particular new recruit. It would not be unlike Pike to throw the two of them together deliberately if he felt that their working relationship may develop into something of a friendship. Of course, Pike is well aware that Vulcans are not prone to developing such close bonds; that they exist rarely outside of family situations. In fact, the closest Spock has come to to realising such an arrangement is the connection he shares with Pike himself, and even that ... that was something upon which he placed careful limitations.

Spock controls his emotions, but they are not a stranger to him. He knows that there is too much admiration mixed with his other feelings for Pike. Their friendship will always be unequal, unbalanced. As the first person who ever saw Spock's potential to be more than simply adequate, Pike will forever be someone he idolises, however abstractly. It is an illogical emotion to ascribe to a human being who is, by nature, inherently flawed. However, if there is one thing Spock feels certain of, it is his own limitations. Nothing could shake his trust, his respect, his confidence in Christopher Pike, but equally, nothing could transform those emotions into a true reciprocal friendship. It is not something he regrets. It is more than he expected to find when he defied his father and joined EPAS. What is, is.

He dismisses such emotive concerns with a well-trained mental shrug and turns his attention to Captain Sulu. In the muted lighting of ship's early morning, the man looks far younger than he did on the _Excelsior_ or the medevac shuttle. It was evident during the rescue attempt that Lieutenant Kirk and Captain Sulu are acquainted, but Spock had thought them superior and serving officers. Now, he is forced to reevaluate that assumption. It is far more likely that they were peers serving under the same command, which by inference means that Sulu served aboard the _Enterprise_ , potentially at the battle of Vulcan-that-was. No wonder his eidetic memory has failed him.

Spock swallows.

It is a shallow emotional tell, but he is forced to suppress the immediate flash of shame that follows it. After all this time, after so many nights spent in meditation, this is still all it takes to unsettle him; a stranger lying in sickbay. Did Sulu set foot upon the planet's surface? Did he feel the last gust of wind, the last tremble of the soil before oblivion?

McCoy chooses this moment to barge through the curtain, tricorder in hand, and Spock flinches. He actually flinches.

Of course, those keen eyes don't miss it.

"Everything all right, Spock?"

He just raises an eyebrow, not yet trusting his voice at that moment.

"Captain Sulu makes an excellent patient; you could take a leaf out of his book next time you get yourself all banged up. Meditation is no substitute for a good healing sleep," McCoy waves the tricorder at him. "You remember that."

Spock ignores the dig and turns back to look at the obliviously sleeping patient. "At what point do you anticipate that he will be able to participate in a debriefing?"

"How are the wrists? Are you using that salve I gave you?"

"They are healing adequately," Spock informs him, apparently unperterbed that McCoy has chosen to answer his question with another question.

McCoy makes 'come on, then' motions with his hands and Spock supresses a very un-Vulcan sigh before pulling up his sleeves and displaying his hands for the doctor's inspection. McCoy doesn't reach out to touch, knows better.

"You're not wearing those extra insulating pair of gloves, are you? Spock, you were bred in the desert, your skin can't take prolonged exposure to the cold of space. That's why it has no elasticity when you do something stupid like this. Why you couldn't take two seconds to undo those gloves rather than half tearing your hands off is beyond me."

"Lieutenant Kirk required immediate resuscitation."

"Yeah, and how does that work," McCoy straightens, "for a man who doesn't like to touch people?"

Spock clasps his hands behind his back again and dons a slightly supercilious expression. It is petty, but even Spock has limits. "I would not be effective in my role as a Point if I were not able to overcome my natural discomfort in order to function satisfactorily in an emergency situation."

"No," McCoy drawls, "I guess not."

Spock nods at the biobed. "Captain Sulu?"

The doctor shakes his head as though defeated. "He'll be good to go about eleven hundred hours, but he's going to be groggy, Spock," he warns. "Go easy on him, okay?"

Spock draws himself up to his full height. "What possible motivation could I have for mistreating Captain Sulu?"

"Just tone down the Spanish Inquisition on this one, okay? The man's lost enough as it is."

"Doctor, I object to your comparison."

"How novel."

Spock nods politely and exits the sickbay.

Bones looks after him with a strange expression on his face. "Green-blooded hobgoblin," he sighs.

-:-

The comm alert sounds in Jim's quarters and he jolts awake, heart pounding like it only does when he's been solidly, properly asleep. He groans. He hadn't even needed to take one of the sleeping pills Chapel had discharged him with. Natural sleep is hard to come by. This had better be good.

"Kirk here," he says, then has to clear his throat and try again. "This is Kirk."

"Lieutenant," comes Spock's crisp voice. "Are you able to join us in the Captain's ready room?"

Jim blinks in response to the unusual request, then the request part sinks in and he jolts upright. "I'm on my way."

The line goes dead without even a thank you, but he wasn't really expecting one. He shakes his head whilst simultaneously pulling on a shirt. Is he already starting to think like a Vulcan? To hell with that. It's only been a week.

He splashes his face with water, runs damp hands through his unruly hair and jogs down the corridor with his boots undone, only to fasten them in the turbolift while several Ops crew try to pretend they aren't looking. He grins at them and they're no longer able to hide their amusement, even if they do press their lips together tightly. These are the Alpha crew and they don't know him from a bar of soap; they're not the people he hears on the other end of the comms when he's out there on Point. Still, he was out with Alpha for the _Excelsior_ , so it could happen that one of these days someone in this lift might save his life with their timely information.

He rises from his crouch with strange and opposing feelings of vulnerability and gratitude, not quite sure what to make of it all. It's a crazy, fucked up life he's chosen to lead, that's for damn sure. He wonders what his mom would make of it if he'd bothered to tell her.

The doors swish open and he's regurgitated out onto the bridge. It's only the second time he's been here, the first being the ship-wide tour they'd received their first day during orientation. He remembers which is the door to the ready room and saves himself the embarrassing task of asking for directions. The door swishes aside and he's faced with Spock, Hikaru, Hannity from Ops and the only person in the room wearing a Starfleet uniform that he must assume is Captain Taylor.

"Reporting as ordered," Jim says, wondering what the hell is going on.

"Lieutenant Kirk," the Captain says, rising to his feet and tugging on his gold shirt, which had risen up over his paunch as he stood. "Please, have a seat. Your reputation preceeds you."

Jim sits in the only space left, between Spock and Sulu, trying not to look nervous. This has the feel of a disciplinary event.

"The Captain is referring to your efforts aboard the _Excelsior_ ," Spock informs him helpfully.

Jim feels himself relax, vowing to remember that so far he hasn't fucked up here yet. Well, that he knows about, anyway.

"Indeed I am," Taylor smiles warmly. "I hear that Captain Sulu here owes you his life."

"What else is new?" Sulu chuckles, turning a fond look on Jim.

If it were just the two of them, Jim would have punched him in the arm or told him to shut up, but he could do neither in the Captain's ready room so he just squirms a little. "I was doing my job, sir."

"Like hell," Taylor enthuses. "I've read Spock's mission report, not many people go to such lengths to save a life. Just try to remember that yours is valuable to us, too, son."

"Aye, sir," Jim acknowledges, rather interested to read Spock's mission report himself, now.

Spock leans forward, redirecting Taylor's attention. "If we might discuss the matter at hand, Captain?"

"Of course, of course," Taylor sits again and makes an open palmed gesture in Spock's direction. "I think you have a pretty good handle on the situation. Why don't you explain to young Lieutenant Kirk why he's here when he'd rather be tucked up in bed?"

Jim draws breath to protest but Spock beats him to it.

"Given that Captain Sulu has already informed us that you have deduced the approximate location of the _Excelsior_ 's last confrontation, it should come as no surprise to you to hear that the star system lost to Nero was Antares."

Truth be told, Jim _is_ a little surprised, because Antares isn't a small fish. They are a Federation colony on the border of Romulan space, and as such, their defenses are significant, but Spock is staring at him intently, so he just nods.

"What Captain Sulu has also relayed to us involves the mission you both undertook during the Federation's engagement with Nero at the planet Vulcan."

Jim sits a little straighter in his seat. It's awkward beyond belief to be sitting there, staring at Spock's upswept brows and pointed ears whilst bringing that battle to mind. It's as though the universe is rubbing his nose in his mistakes.

"Yes?" he forces, although it sounds a little strained to his own ears.

"Specifically the report both of you filed regarding the supposition that Nero possesses the technology to obliterate objects without the use of particle beam technology."

Jim swallows heavily. "I remember."

How could he forget? Escape pods blinking out, one by one, disappearing into nothing without even a shimmer of transporter technology. He'd watched, aghast, as the lucky survivors of the initial encounter with Nero were snuffed out, whisps of ashes and smoke, nothing but a memory, like afterimages burned onto the back of his eyes, so incredibly impermanent.

When he comes out of it, Sulu's hand is on his knee and Spock is looking at him with eyes that seem more brown than black.

"Sorry," he whispers.

"I saw the same thing." It's Sulu who speaks, even though Jim is still staring at Spock, mesmerised.

"I know you did," Jim replies.

"Jim, I saw it at Antares."

He manages to break away from the intensity of Spock's gaze and has to blink several times to ground himself. "Lifepods disappearing? You saw it there, too?"

"Not just lifepods," Sulu clarifies. "Ships. Whole ships just disappearing."

"Impossible," Jim breathes.

"Many said the same about your initial report," Spock reminds him.

"I know, but ..." he wipes a hand over his face, hating the aching fatigue clogging his brain. "Think of the energy involved. I mean, we're talking an astronomical power source. Like a sun or a nova. Warp drives as we know them couldn't provide enough energy in a stable format, you'd get too much flux due to polarisation. Could something capable of output like that even be made portable?"

"Unknown," Spock replies, with a hint of respect and surprise.

"So you wish to confirm your initial statement regarding the disappearing lifepods at the battle of Vulcan?" Taylor presses, entering into the discussion for the first time.

"I do," Jim nods, then frowns. "Of course I do."

"No offense intended," Taylor says mildly. "It's just that I've been in battles myself and sometimes things can get a little out of hand, you can see things that afterward seem ..."

"I know what I saw," Jim interrupts coldly, then remembers himself. "It happened just like it says in my report, sir."

"Very good, very good," Taylor fusses, sitting back in his recliner and folding his hands over his stomach. "I had to ask, you understand."

Jim nods, a small, thoughtless motion of his head that doesn't stop until Sulu's fingers tighten around his leg and he realises he's doing it.

-:-

"Lieutenant Kirk."

Spock's commanding baritone cuts through the bustle in the busy corridor, eliminating any hope Jim had of ducking into the waiting turbolift and pretending he hasn't heard. He's tired, sore and hungry. All he wants to do is down a bowl of cereal and crawl back into bed. Preferably cereal drowned in honey. Also some pancakes. And maybe bacon. Yeah, bacon.

Instead, he ducks to the side, out of everyone's way and waits for Spock to catch up with him. "Sir?"

Spock indicates the direction Jim was traveling with a nod of his head. "I do not wish to keep you from your rest. We can talk as we walk, if you have no objection."

"I look that tired, do I?"

Spock glances at him. "Yes, you do."

They bypass several lifts and Jim realises that although Spock doesn't want to sidetrack him too much, he must have a reasonably in depth conversation planned because they're taking the long way.

"I wish to remind you that the matters disclosed during the briefing are classified."

"Of course," Jim nods, knowing that Spock is just fulfilling his obligation under policy to ensure that he complies with orders, that this is the precursor, not the meat of the conversation. "I've got nobody to gossip with, anyway."

Eyes straight ahead, Spock asks, "you feel as though you have no friends aboard this ship?"

"That's not what I said."

"Nobody in whom you can confide?"

"I'm not much of a confider."

They glance at each other, and there's a measure of greater understanding.

"No," says Spock.

Jim looks at him with a wry shake of his head. "You're a real bleeding heart aren't you?"

Spock's face does that thing where he's not smiling again. "What an unfortunate mental image. Humans are most illogical."

"Doesn't that make you half illogical?" Jim asks with a glint in his eye, remembering Spock's introduction and his human mother, the teacher, lost on Vulcan like so many others.

"I find that remark ... insulting," Spock says after some consideration.

Jim laughs, glances at Spock's blandly questioning face and laughs again. He has to quell the urge to sling an arm around the Commander's shoulders. It's so strong that he clasps his hands in the small of his back, mimicking Spock's customary stance, wondering what's got into him. They're a long way from that, even if Vulcans allowed such contact.

Despite having taken the long way, Spock's natural efficiency means that they've nearly reached Jim's quarters, so whatever he's got to say, it's going to have to come soon. Jim battles for equilibrium.

"Lieutenant?"

"Yes?" he responds, trying to seem like he hasn't been waiting for it.

"I wish to express my ... recognition of your efforts at the battle of Vulcan-that-was."

Spock might suck at it, but that's still one hell of a thank you coming from a Vulcan and a superior officer, and all kinds of surprising. Jim wishes he knew how to feel about it. A planet is gone, lost forever, so how do you even begin to feel good about anything that happened that day? Then again, Spock's tension as they wait outside Jim's quarters suggests that the guy's gone out on a limb here and Jim doesn't want to leave him hanging.

"Nothing we did was enough. I'm so sorry." Jim can't help but reach out and quickly grasp the Commander's arm, pointedly avoiding skin, deliberately fleeting, but a touch just the same.

Spock's eyes travel down to the faint imprint of human fingers in the nap of his uniform.

"I can't help it," Jim shrugs. "It's the human way to say sorry."

"I understand."

"If I were Vulcan," he asks recklessly, "what could I say?"

"Tushah nash-veh k'dular," Spock whispers. "I grieve with thee."

"C'thia," Jim answers, his accent more than passable, noticing that Spock has used the form that addresses an equal. C'thia, _this is the way things are_.

Spock presses his eyes shut for a little longer than a blink can justify, then turns on his heel and walks calmly away.

Jim looses the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and wipes a hand down his face. Decisively, he punches the comm button outside his door and glances at the chrono.

"Lieutenant Kirk to Doctor McCoy."

"McCoy here," comes the quick reply. "Need something, son?"

"Yeah, I do."

-:-

"You know," McCoy drawls, holding his glass up to the light, "as your doctor, I should caution you against drinking in the morning."

"You're not my doctor," Jim counters, setting his empty tumbler down. "Chapel is, and this is the middle of my night time."

"Well, in that case," he smiles, reaching across to refill both their glasses for the third or fourth time. "You know, against my better judgment, I find I like you."

Jim's eyes water as he takes an overly large swallow. "I'm touched," he gasps, blinking back the tears. "What the hell is this?"

"Don't ask."

"Okay."

"It's on the books as medicinal, but in actual fact, one of the boys in engineering makes it. Good old fashioned moonshine," McCoy grins, seeming very pleased about it. "Our illustrious Commander knows about it, of course, and it's a wonder to me that he hasn't shut it down."

"Spock knows about it?" Jim should find this more amazing, he really should, but the reason he's here is eating him up inside.

"Probably has some damn logical explanation as to why us mere humans benefit from killing off a few brain cells now and again, I don't ..."

"Bones, I think I've got a problem."

McCoy lowers his drink to the table and his eyes track it, giving Kirk the privacy of not looking at him. He doesn't even bitch about the nickname Jim refuses to explain. "Feel like talking about it?"

"On or off the record?"

"Well, now," McCoy sighs. "That depends entirely on whether or not it's going to affect your work."

"I think it could."

"I see," he nods, finally raising his eyes and seeking Jim's. "I see."

-:-

Spock is careful to ensure that he accomplishes his duties both efficiently and to the highest possible standard for the rest of his shift. He takes dinner in the mess hall because that is his habit. He even spends forty five minutes exercising in the gym because McCoy has made a note in his file that says he has lost muscle mass since his last physical. This fact is unsurprising considering how much time he spends suited up in zero-g. His Vulcan physiology is adapted to a higher gravity than is maintained on the ship, and the two factors together mean he must be mindful of avoiding atrophy.

So it is that approximately six hours after his conversation with Kirk, when he is off active duty but still on call until the Beta crew rotation takes over, Spock seats himself on the edge of his bed and presses his shaking hands between his knees.

He is quite compromised.

"Computer," he calls, his voice uncharacteristically tight. "Commence recording subspace message."

 _Recording_

Spock draws a deep breath and exhales carefully before speaking.

"Mother ..."

His throat closes up despite his preparation and he is forced to pause the recording until he can reassert some semblance of control.

"I had thought my first message to you to be an anomaly; an aberrant and illogical coping mechanism. It seems I was mistaken ... perhaps about a great many things. There is a human, a recent addition to our crew, who was there. He was there when I was not."

Spock raises pained eyes to the recording unit and his hands form fists upon his thighs.

"His record shows that he conducted himself bravely and demonstrated considerable skill. He is responsible for evacuating the Elders from the Katric Arc, for preserving what little we have of our history. It is a great achievement but I sense no pride in him, only grief and regret. It leaves me no choice but to infer that what he saw upon the planet's surface was distressing to him, and I find myself unable to stop wondering ... Mother, did he see you in the Arc?"

Spock forces the next words through clenched teeth. "Were you in pain?"

He hangs his head, controlling his breathing, trying to ignore his rebellious human eyes. In the end, he is forced to wipe them.

 _Delivery error. No such subspace beacon 40eridani. Abort, retry or fail?_

"Fail," he whispers.

 _Abort, retry or fail?_

"Computer, delete message."

 _Message deleted from queue._

 


	9. chapter 2.3

McCoy gives Jim one week's leeway to broach things with T'Loren before he's going to have to do it officially. As much as he hates to admit it, the whole thing is going to look a heck of a lot better if it comes from him rather than the doctor. Sulu said the same, but now he's gone, disappeared in a shuttle headed back to Earth.

That had been one awkward conversation. Sulu had tried to get him to commit to messaging or even comming from time to time and had looked utterly crestfallen when brushed off. It wasn't that Jim doesn't like the idea of keeping in touch, it's just the idea that one day, pretty soon, the messages might stop. Now, that's a whole different thing.

He trusts Sulu implicity though, and he's beginning to trust McCoy, but he's got one last thing to check on before he talks to T'Loren.

Pike's face materializes on the comm screen but remains a little fuzzy around the edges. "Jim!" he smiles. "Is this business or pleasure?"

"Sort of neither," he hedges. "I need some advice."

"Professional or personal?" Pike is immediately attentive. He knows as well as Jim does that these long distance comm lines are energy expensive and unreliable at best.

"Both."

Pike makes an exasperated face. "Give me something to work with here, Jim."

"The ship's doctor thinks I need counseling."

"So, what else is new? Who among us doesn't?" Pike shrugs.

"I approached him, though. I think ... I think if I don't do something about it, there's a chance it could affect my performance."

"What could?"

"Vulcan."

"Ah," says Pike, leaning back in his chair so that his face no longer fills the screen. "That shit storm."

Jim waits patiently while the Admiral digests his confession. For once in his life, waiting is the easy option. It's the getting up and explaining himself to his Point Two that he doesn't want to do. He can't help thinking that it'd be a heck of a lot easier if only he could have told McCoy and have that be the end of it, or even if Spock was his direct superior. He has no rapport with T'Loren, hasn't even worked with her outside of mission prep since his initial field training. There's been a long-awaited lull in direct confrontation along the Neutral Zone, leaving the _Stalwart_ and many other EPAS divisions at loose ends.

"What is it?" the Admiral asks. "Flashbacks? Bad dreams?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B," he jokes, trying to ease the tension.

"Tell me," Pike says, "Vulcan wasn't the reason you left Starfleet, was it?"

"No," Jim shakes his head. "Hell, no. The orders might have had something to do with it, but the experience itself? No, that wasn't it."

"Nobody would blame you."

"I didn't transfer out because of that."

"Good," Pike snaps, his eyes suddenly cold. "Because I'd hate to think you'd lied to me, Jim."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Uh huh."

The two men stare at each other from across space, each deep in thought. Pike steeples his fingers and purses his lips. Jim just watches, feeling strangely detached from the proceedings.

"Why are you telling me this, Jim? What is it you want?"

Kirk wants to say it's because he thought Pike might care, but that's a little too revealing. It hearkens back to the rare sound of his mother laughing at one of Christopher's jokes, or the warm feel of a strong hand on his shoulder when Pike occupied the spare room at the farm. He'd thought it might matter to Pike, whether or not he was okay. Apparently not. He needs to stop doing this to himself.

"I want to know if they're going to take me off active duty," Jim offers, and it's only a half-truth, because it _is_ one reason why he called.

"Not likely," Pike shrugs. "Not unless the doctor deems you psychologically unfit, and you passed your entrance evals so unless something has changed drastically over the last few weeks, I can't see why you'd flunk them now."

Jim nods, it's what he figured, but it's nice to have it confirmed by someone in a position to know. Plus, Pike might not be a father to him but he's always excelled at keeping his mouth shut when Jim is in trouble and needs advice.

"All right then, thanks for that," he offers, leaning over to end the transmission. He's got what he needed from this conversation, if not what he wanted.

"Call me if you need to, Jim."

He forces a smile. "Yeah, sure," and thumbs the switch, then stares at the blank screen for a long time.

-:-

In Jim's defense, it's just bad luck that hostilities ignite again the following day. A civilian research outpost orbiting a planetoid well within Federation space is obliterated by Nero's fleet. Only the telltale gravitational anomaly left by the use of Nero's secret weapon indicates where fifty people lost their lives. It causes universal outrage and civil unrest among the member worlds, which was no doubt exactly what Nero is seeking. An administration that is hamstrung by political backlash is slower on its feet, all its reactions delayed, essentially muzzled.

Nero might be a psychopath, but he's a clever tactician and he takes full advantage, driving his point home by decimating a couple of agricultural worlds with conventional weapons, creating a drain on resources in the form of medical, social and economic aid. EPAS are stretched incredibly thin.

In amongst it all, even McCoy has to acknowledge that it's hard to find time to talk to T'Loren about anything that isn't absolutely critical. At least he's started the sessions with Bones, even if he doesn't really know how to do this therapy thing. He's trying to make a go of it, despite the negativity that haunts him. He's sat across from many people who've tried to unpick the knots in his brain, and all he's come away with is a healthy disrespect for psychotherapy. Besides, although the work is hard and the sights are disturbing, Jim's beginning to think he's becoming accustomed to it, that he might not have such a problem. Then again, there has been little to no EVA work, with most of their saves being straight forward planet-side evacuations, and perhaps he's only sleeping well because he's physically exhausted, but he _is_ sleeping, at least most of the time.

He hangs out with Alpha crew at change of shift, taking his dinner alongside their breakfast. Ashe is proving to be particularly good company. Chekov kind of idolizes her, too, which is unbelievably entertaining. Occasionally Nix temporarily loses one of her crew to fatigue or minor injury and they're forced to pull someone from the floating pool to cover, or get someone to do a double shift. The Vulcans' natural hardiness means it's always one of the others who's replaced.

Today Jim's has one day off for a minor burn and Ashe covers for him, pulling a double after her usual stint as Spock's Point One. Jim watches her run through pre-flight, joking with a smiling Chapel and ruffling young Chekov's unruly hair. It's the first time he's felt envious of working a shift under T'Loren, but that's _his_ crew, his place in the world. With a start, he realizes he's not going to be able to rest while Beta is out on deployment.

"Aye, she's a fine shuttle."

A voice next to Jim's shoulder startles him. He looks around to find a short man in engineer's overalls and Lieutenant's tabs staring lovingly at Nix. The man's ginger blond hair is sticking up in all directions and his accent is thick, the comic result of which banishes a little of Jim's unease.

The engineer notices his scrutiny and holds out a hand. "Montgomery Scott," he says with a firm, brief shake.

"Jim Kirk."

"You're a Point, then?"

"How did you know?"

"You've got that look about you," Scott says wisely, "like that ship is your girlfriend and somebody else is buying her a drink. And then there's the small matter of your uniform."

"Oh," Jim cranes his neck to look at his shoulders. "Yeah, right," he nods, feeling like an idiot.

"Amazing powers of deduction," Scott grins, "it's why they keep me around. Well," he muses, drawing out the word. "That and my little side projects."

"Wait a minute," Jim's eyes narrow as various rumors click into place. "I know you. You're the guy with the still."

"Keep it down, will you?" Scott shushes him, eyes darting around the hangar bay. "Trying to get me cited?"

"Montgomery, it's common knowledge," Jim apologizes.

"For God's sake call me Scotty," the engineer blusters, studying Jim rather doubtfully through pale blue eyes. "People know about it, you say? Which people?"

"Doctor McCoy, for one."

"Bah," Scotty dismisses him with a wave of one grease-stained hand. "He won't tell, it would jeopardize his supply."

"According to him, Commander Spock knows as well."

Scotty turns as white as a sheet, all his freckles standing out comically as he clutches for Jim's sleeve with an iron grip made of panic. "Tell me it isn't so!"

Jim bursts out laughing, drawing the attention of T'Loren and Ashe, who are still standing outside Nix's doors, discussing their mission brief. Scotty prods him in the chest, color flooding back into his face.

"Here, you can't tease a man about things like that."

"I'm not," Jim chuckles. "Bones will swear that Spock knows."

"No."

"Really!"

"Sure," Scotty drawls sarcastically, but his eyes are haunted as he manages to make himself let go of Jim's uniform.

They both turn to watch as Nix powers up and begins the taxi to the shuttle bay doors. Ashe leans into her Point harness and gives Jim a big thumbs up. He returns with a cheeky salute which makes her grin.

"Hey," Scotty says, talking to Jim but unable to tear his eyes from Nix's sleek lines and crisp running lights. "Got anything planned for your downtime?"

Feeling like a weight has lifted from his shoulders, Jim shakes his head. "What did you have in mind?"

Nix slingshots out, which seems to finally release them both. Scotty turns to look at him with a calculating expression. "How are you with statistics?"

-:-

Jim has been dreading some freakishly geeky engineering drinking game involving complex equations, so he's pleasantly surprised to find that Scotty had been talking about cards. Any rare personal item buys you into the game, so Jim pledges one of his last fresh apples. So the pot is an eclectic mix of foodstuffs and mild contraband; enough to make it interesting but nothing that would earn anyone more than a slap on the wrist if discovered.

Jim is paired with Scotty, who'd offered him a vile Andorian herbal cigar at the beginning of play. It tasted foul and Jim isn't a smoker, but it makes him feel the part so much that he puts up with it.

"What's high?"

"Nothing," Scotty reminds him, looking worried. "You're thinking of a different game."

"Oh," Jim blinks owlishly. "What game is this?"

"Sweet Jesus," Scotty moans.

"No, no," Jim grins around the table. "I think I remember. I'll see your bet and raise you."

Scotty knocks back a shot of his own hooch, eyes watering prolifically. "Sure you want to do that?"

"Pretty sure," Jim says, sounding anything but.

Everyone else sees his raise, so he lays his cards out on the makeshift table and plasters on his best innocent face. "That's good right?"

There are muttered curses from the other players as they fold in unison and Jim reaches out to collect his considerable winnings. Beside him, Scotty bends to pick up the cigar which had fallen from his lips when his jaw dropped.

"Good lad," he whispers, eyes wide. "Best bluff I've seen in ages."

"Bluff?" Jim asks, shuffling the deck like a pro. "What bluff? I've never played this before in my life."

Scotty grins happily and pushes another drink his way.

-:-

 _Confidential transcript: therapeutic psychological intervention sessions: Kirk, James Tiberius, Lieutentant, EPAS.  
Therapist: McCoy, Leonard, MD, Senior Clinician, USS Stalwart.  
Transcript abridged, please refer to central cortex for further information._

2261.1.14

"Jim, I want to talk about your relationship with your commanding officer."

"Spock?"

"No, T'Loren."

"Ah."

"What made you think I was talking about Spock?"

"Technically he's my commanding officer, T'Loren is just my shift supervisor."

"And technically Captain Taylor is my boss, but I report to the Surgeon General on Luna. She's your Point Two, Jim. Usually that's the first person you'd think of."

"Okay, so what do you infer from that? Going to show me some inkblots and talk about my shitty childhood?"

"Jesus, Jim. Try to work with me here."

2261.1.30

"I heard this last mission was a bit of a debacle."

"Bones, that doesn't even begin to cover it."

"What the hell kind of nickname is that? 'Bones'? Where did that spring from?"

"You just remind me of a dog I used to know."

"Excuse me?"

"A dog I used to know."

"I heard you the first time."

"There was this nasty looking beagle that used to mooch around the drugstore in Riverside. Nobody knew who he belonged to. Bit me once, but kind of looked sorry afterwards, you know?"

"Oh, that's just great."

"Whatever you say."

"You sound tired."

"I _am_ tired. I've got a right to be. Have you seen the EVA hours we've clocked?"

"Nix Beta more than most."

"T'Loren pushes us hard, but she knows we can take it."

"Does she?"

"Yeah."

"You sure about that?"

"Look, all I want from life right now is a hot shower and a flat surface. Mind if we skip to the end?"

"Okay, fine. The universe lost another planet to Nero today, how does that make you feel?"

"How is it supposed to make me feel?"

"Jim, there are no right or wrong answers."

"Yeah, just those that will get me fired and those that will get me committed."

"You need to stop think of these sessions like a psych eval, they're not."

"Oh, so you can promise me that the things I say here will have absolutely no bearing on my active status or future advancement?"  
.  
.  
.

"Thought not."

-:-

McCoy carefully unwraps the dressing from his arm, and Jim is struck again by the observation that every part of the doctor seems to be slightly weathered except for his hands, which are paler than the rest of him and baby smooth; surgeon's hands.

"You had that conversation with T'Loren, yet?"

Jim winces. "No."

"Jim!"

"It hasn't exactly been easy to find the right moment," he flails slightly, making McCoy draw back with an irritated expression. Jim apologizes and returns his arm to within the doctor's reach.

"This is going to be a difficult conversation for you, there isn't going to _be_ a moment that feels right," McCoy looks up. "It's going to be hard no matter when you do it, but I really can't keep this secret much longer. You've been good about coming to see me for sessions and your psych profile looks a lot less stressed, which has me reassured, but I'm essentially being insubordinate, despite the doctor's oath of confidentiality. T'Loren's your direct superior and she has the right to know that this is going on."

"I know," Jim sighs defeatedly. "I know. I'll find the time."

"Do it today," he counsels. "Just get it out of the way. Get it off your back." The doctor applies an aerosol spray to the new, pink skin on his forearm and makes a satisfied cluck. "You're done here."

-:-

Jim thumbs the comm outside T'Loren's cabin. The computer has told him she is available for consultation at this time; early morning for both of them, right after breakfast. He wasn't able to eat much, thinking about what he has to say. It's one thing to tease out the edges of his experience at Vulcan with McCoy, whose humour and compassion mitigate the fallout of those memories, and quite another to confess to his unemotional Two that he's got some issues tucked away in his illogical human brain.

The door swishes open, cutting of his train of thought.

"Lieutenant Kirk," she says; an observation devoid of all surprise.

"Have you got a moment?"

She tilts her head, translating and inferring, then steps aside. "Of course."

Jim enters her quarters for the first time and is taken aback by the austerity. He's expected some personal touches, at least. Apart from the muted sandy colour palate which anyone can customise, there's not a single sign here of T'Loren's individuality. For some reason, it's distinctly unsettling.

"You wished to speak to me?" she prompts, making him jump.

"Uh, yeah," Jim casts his eyes around the room for something comforting and comes up blank. "Mind if we sit down?"

T'Loren inlines her head and Jim joins her on the other side of the desk. He clasps his hands in his lap and decides the best way to do this is simply to state facts. It's the logical thing to do.

"I was at the Battle of Vulcan," he tells her, kind of proud of his lack of inflection.

"Having read your file, I am aware of that fact," she acknowledges blankly.

"The thing is ..." and he falters. McCoy's words surface in his mind. _This is never going to be easy; just get on with it._ "I'm seeing one of the ship's doctors for post traumatic counseling."

Her face is unreadable, with not even the slightest flicker of emotion visible. "Then you have done the correct thing by following protocol and informing me."

"Obviously, if there's any sign that this issue might impact on my ability to work, you'll be informed by the medical staff."

Jim sits awkwardly watching her watching him. It's probably only a handful of seconds that tick past in silence, but it feels like an eternity.

"Was there something else you wish to discuss?" she asks, blinking once.

"No," he says. "That's it."

She stands and inclines her head in polite dismissal. "Since you are returned to active duty, I shall expect to see you at the mission briefing, oh eight hundred hours."

"Sir."

Jim can't get out of there fast enough.

-:-

2261.2.07

"Jim we need to talk about Vulcan."

"That can wait, have you heard anything from theatre? Is Uhura going to be okay?"

"She's out of surgery and doing just fine, Jim."

"Thank fuck for that."

"This is a dangerous job. It's a dangerous universe. I've seen you when other people get hurt and you're not like this. Is it because Uhura's a woman? Is there something between you two?"

"No ... fuck ... no, you moron. It's because she's a Pilot."

"I don't get it."

"She didn't sign up to get shot to shit by trigger-happy Klingons. I mean, fuck! We were there to help them and they goddamn open fire on us? What kind of fucked up shit is that?"

"EPAS operates in a war zone, Jim. Uhura knows that. You know that."

"Yeah, but I signed on to stand in the firing line; she didn't. She just wants to fly shuttles and she's damn good at it. Nowhere in her contract does it state that arrogant warmongering aliens have a right to try to blow her out of the sky when she's coming to save them."

"But it's okay if they happen to kill a Point or two."

"Well, no. It's not okay. Of course it's not okay, but you kind of expect it, you know? Becoming a Point, it makes you consider the possibility."

"And how often do you consider the possibility you might not come back?"

"Every fucking time we go to amber alert."

2261.2.19

"Today, we're really going to talk about Vulcan."

"Sure. Fine. Whatever."

"Jim, I mean it."

"Okay, what do you want me to say? That it was horrible? That it was the single most appalling thing I've ever seen? Cos believe me, since I started this job, I've got quite a lot to compare it to and nothing comes close. What exactly do you want to hear, Bones?"

"The truth."

"Fuck knows what the truth is. How can there be any truth? How can there be anything left after what was taken away, and in the name of _what?_ Does anybody really know what that psychopath is talking about? Romulus being destroyed? He's insane. The planet's right there in front of him, he can visit any time he likes, he can send me a fucking postcard. Vulcan's gone because of a madman."

"It makes you angry."

"No shit. It doesn't make you angry?"

"We're not here to talk about me."

"Sorry, I forgot that I'm the crazy person here."

"Jim ... you came to me for help, remember? So let me help you."  
.  
.  
.  
"What do you want to know?"

"What happened? What can you remember?"

"... It was hot. Dry like a sauna. The air, it was thin, like being on the top of a mountain."

2261.2.28

"We made real progress last time."

"You just like it when I cry."

"Jim ..."

"It makes you feel all manly and protective."

"Can we talk more about the Katric Arc?"

"Sure. I've got my waterproof mascara on today."

"You do that a lot, don't you? Use humour as a defence?"

"Nobody appreciates my cutting wit these days."

"Why's that?"

"Vulcans. You'll never meet a tougher audience."

"What's that like for you? Working closely with two Vulcans after you couldn't save their planet?"

"Ah, I know this one. You're trying to make me angry about singlehandedly losing the Battle of Vulcan, or you're trying to make me guilty for singlehandedly losing the Battle of Vulcan. Either way, you get to say 'it's not your fault,' which is totally obvious and supposedly makes me feel better."

"Stop being such a smartass and answer the question."

"I fucking love it."

"Jim ..."

"No seriously, I love Vulcans. They're _awesome_. Single most fantastic species in the universe."

"Jim ..."

"Pity there aren't more of them."

"Now don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Smile like that. I know you're not happy."

"Do you? I'm not sure I can tell."

2261.3.02

"How much longer am I going to have to keep doing this, Bones? I've told you everything I remember."

"Fair enough. How about we talk about something else?"

"Okay. I heard Ops are edging out Engineering as favourites in the inter-departmental grav ball championships."

"Let's talk about your mother."

"Oh fuck no."

2261.3.03

"I already told you yesterday, I am _not_ discussing my mother."

"Why not?"

"It's fucking obvious why not! What kind of degree have you got, anyway? Did you qualify in psychology or did you just like the sound of some extra letters after your name?"

"You're nasty when you're backed into a corner, you know that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure."

"Fuck, fine. What do you want to know?"

"Do you still talk to her?"

"Winona?"

"Your mother, yes."

"Most years I remember her birthday."

"And?"

"She sent me a comm last year before she went deep space again, but it got rerouted so many times that I only got it a week ago."

"How does that make you feel?"

"How is it supposed to make me feel?"

"I don't know, Jim."

"No, that's right, you don't, because you probably have a mother you can actually carry a conversation with."

"You don't feel like you know your mother?"

"Well enough. Better than I'd like to. Less than is healthy."

"That's pretty contradictory."

"Welcome to my psyche, Doctor McCoy."

"Did you talk to her about Vulcan?"

"What is it with the Vulcan again? Aren't we done with that?"

"That's kind of up to you."

"Oh, I'm so done with that."

"Your sleeping patterns disagree."

"Beta shift has never suited me."

"Might have something to do with those nightmares, don't you think?"

"Bones, I dream but I don't have nightmares."

-:-

One 'night,' Jim stumbles back to his quarters bruised and battered from several rough landings. Chekov had maintained a constant sub-audible stream of Russian invective all the way back to the shuttle bay and not even T'Loren had reprimanded him. It was only thanks to the young man's innate ability to fly the most unwilling of objects that they were still in once piece. Jim owes him a drink. Or ten. He knows from bitter experience that the kid can hold it.

"Lights to twenty five percent," he snaps, bending over to tug on the fastenings of his boots. The new vantage point reveals a sight that sends a flash of adrenaline through his frazzled system. There's someone in his room. In his bed. "What the fuck?"

"Nice line, Kirk."

"Ashe?" his voice breaks high with surprise.

"You've been worked up about something lately, I can tell." She sits up, holding the sheet to her naked chest, preserving the illusion of modesty where there isn't any. "And me ... well, let's just say that keeping the Commander alive has been harder than usual these last few missions."

"Oh yeah?" Jim's tone is conversational and he finishes with his boots, throwing them into the closet without looking. It's true, Spock has been stalking about the place wearing a particularly intent kind of blank expression. The mission briefings he runs are even more succinct, his words carefully chosen to convey no emotion as he informs them of the latest Starfleet defeat, or their plummeting save-to-loss ratios. If Jim didn't know better, he'd swear the Vulcan is taking it personally. Everyone's been run ragged lately, but Spock has taken to leaping out of Nix like it hurts him to be aboard, leaving Ashe to give a handover, a haunted look in her eyes. Jim knows she's loyal, knows she'd never say anything, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out she's worried.

Ashe shifts slightly, dark hair slipping out from behind one ear. "I just thought we could both benefit from blowing off a little steam."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" he asks, tone playful, as he pulls his shirt over his head.

"You've got a smart mouth."

"Rest of me's pretty clever, too," he promises.

She laughs, and he's close enough now to see the expression on her face in the low light. She's too pretty, too clever and way, way too damaged to be good for him. The thought gives him pause and she senses it, reaching out to grab him by the belt and haul him closer, her fingers grazing the bare skin of his stomach.

"Listen up, Kirk. We're two peas in a pod, you and I. I don't want to be your lover. Hell, I don't even want to be your friend. This is just sex without the bullshit, you read me?"

Relaxing, he nods and allows her to pull him down across her body, because that sounds like exactly what he needs.

-:-

  
2261.4.10

"It's been a while, Jim. Anyone would think you've been avoiding me."

"Avoiding you? I saw you yesterday."

"Patching up a scalp wound doesn't count."

"Seems like it ought to."

"T'Loren approached me about your mental wellbeing."

"What about it?"

"She's concerned about it."

"She said that?"

"Well, no. Not in as many words."

"She said I'm emotionally compromised, didn't she?"

"Jim ..."

"Mother _fucker._ "

"Now, listen ..."

"There were kids down there, Bones. Little spindly kids melted to their play equipment like crispy chicken wings. Fuck, Spock is right, I think I'm going vegetarian. Can you whip up a meal plan for me?"

"I'm not giving you a vegetarian meal plan."

"Well don't blame me when I come to you with scurvy or some shit because you wouldn't help me. It's oranges I need to eat, right? And beans, heaps of beans or something."

"No vitamin C in beans, Jim."

"I'm fucking serious, Bones. I can't get the smell out of my mouth."

"You're mixing metaphors there."

"Believe me, I'm not."

"So you think T'Loren is overreacting."

"As per fucking usual."

"You don't like her, do you?"

"Honestly, no. But so long as she's a competent CO, I truly couldn't give a shit."

"You've never really got along with anyone who's above you in the chain of command, have you?"

"Hey, you technically outrank me and we get along fine."

"In an operational sense, Jim. Christ Almighty, it's like pulling teeth with you."

"Admiral Pike and I do all right."

"But you've known him since you were a child."

"As much as I've known anyone."

"Jim, somebody had to raise you. If it wasn't your mom and it wasn't Pike, then who have you got down as your next of kin?"

"Don't have one."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't have one, Bones. Shit, you've operated on me enough times, you think you'd know that by now. Who were you going to ask if you had to pull the plug on me? T'Loren?"

"Would you like that?"

"No, but she might."

"Jim ..."

"Joking, Bones, I'm joking."

2261.5.13

"I'm going to wind up these sessions, Jim. I'm just not sure you're getting much out of them anymore."

"Okay, you're the doctor."

"You make that sound like a bad thing."

"Never."

"You'd have to be one of the most frustrating, ungrateful, unappreciative ..."

"What is this? Insult the patient day? What about my delicate mental state?"

"Just promise me you'll come talk to me if things get bad again."

"Yeah, okay."

"Jim, I mean it."

"I know, I know."

"You're doing better now, you've said so yourself. I'm proud of what you've accomplished, even if I'm not quite sure how it happened."

"Jesus, Bones, you're not going to hug me are you?"

"Sonofa ... get out of my sickbay."

"Sure thing. Hey, I'm off to rec room two. It's the grav ball prelims tonight, want to join me?"

"Sorry, I can't. I'm too busy writing a report on how you're irretrievably fucked up but somehow still highly functional and reliable."

"Sounds like a blast."

"You ought to know."

 


	10. chapter 2.4

It's six months into his contract with EPAS and Jim's long since forgotten what it feels like to be the new kid. From the vantage point of his newly acquired experience, it's amazing how often people come and go. There are casualties, sure enough, but it's actually the resignations and transfers that hit their numbers hardest. Seeing an influx of at least ten new people a month quickly inures him to the process of orientating new staff. They get even more when they're near the center of Federation held space, because Pike takes advantage of the secure shipping routes to warp people over in higher numbers.

Over time, Jim discovers within himself a new tolerance for T'Loren's obsessive need to do better than everyone and McCoy's cynical friendship. When he mentions to Ashe that he's feeling like a particularly Southern sort of Vulcan, she just laughs, chews on her Andorian cigar and gives him a look that says he'd better leave his door unlocked tonight. They're not an item, they're not even particularly interested in each other, but Jim finds a simple release in her body that acts as a dam for some of the loneliness and some of the desperation. It still feels like he can't make a difference fast enough and it eats at him during his rest breaks, the Iowa State News burbling in the background as his mind chases itself into sleep. Ashe bumps up against his bruises unapologetically and doesn't really care what he's feeling, but she's warm and enthusiastic and very much alive. He's pretty sure she's sleeping with Scotty, too, but that kind of thing has never bothered him.

Jim isn't exactly happy, but he's nurturing a sense of belonging in the hope that it will blossom into something more and he'll finally know that this is what he's supposed to do with his life. McCoy just laughs at him. The doctor still keeps tabs on him, but is apparently satisfied that he isn't going to jeopardize an evacuation or end it all with a long walk out a short airlock. Jim doesn't feel nearly balanced enough to be out of therapy, but neither does he see the virtue of saying as much to Bones, who's pretty much told him you never really get over seeing a planet obliterated. Supposedly there's logic in that.

He spends his one free day per six in the rec rooms with Ashe, Scotty, Hannity and Chekov playing cards and chess, or in the gym working out. He occasionally catches sight of Spock there if their rosters line up, but they don't talk much. Perhaps a simple acknowledgment or a question pertaining to a current operation or deployment notification. He sees the way Spock and Ashe communicate so easily and wishes he had that kind of rapport with T'Loren. It's not that they haven't managed to make it work, because they have, but he can't shake the feeling she doesn't really trust him, and it's mutual. He's not a coward, but he'd prefer having the sense that his CO might miss him slightly if he died. Or, you know, notice.

Pike occasionally asks him what crew he's working and seems slightly disappointed every time he says Beta. It's clearly not the answer he's hoping for. Still, for him to end up on Alpha crew, either Spock or Ashe would have to go, and time has shown him it would be a certain kind of sacrilege to break up such a competent Point team. Jim forces himself to serve as T'Loren's One, putting his faith in the knowledge that the whole operation is overseen by Spock, in whom he's come to place a great amount of confidence. The Commander is a natural leader; sharp, competent and unwilling to ask of someone else what he is not willing to do himself. Jim knows he could do a lot worse, especially during their inter-combat deployments. Spock always pulls doubles for those, very much aware of how quickly an EPAS rescue group can transform into a tasty military target. Like so many other ex-Starfleet personnel, it's hard for Jim to remember where he belongs sometimes, when the phasers fire off around their shuttles. The sound of Spock's calm baritone over the comm calls him back to the job at hand; makes him evaluate potential saves instead of tactics and strategic retreats.

No matter what he told Pike, it really is hard to let go of the center seat.

Not all EPAS work happens on the front line. Sometimes it's salvage, both personnel and equipment. Other times it's more behind the scenes, like the current relocation project on Robicon IV. The only M-class planet in the Robicon solar system is approximately double Earth-mass and is home to eighteen billion beings; twice that of the long-stable Earth population of nine billion. The Robii are a warp-capable society with a propensity towards flamboyant posturing and an apparent pathological dislike of being helped. That's not what Spock's briefings say, but it's the conclusion Jim's come to after three weeks of failed negotiations.

Day after day Spock stands up in front of everyone and tells them there's going to be at least another seventy two hours of sitting on their hands because the Robii are tussling with the Diplomatic Corps over the wording of some subsection or addendum to the relocation contract. It's all got to do with loss of face and political positioning and Jim's well and truly over it. He's held his tongue up til now, but the constant chauffeuring of pompous diplomats from place to place is doing more than rubbing him the wrong way. As much as he welcomed the break from the front lines, it's getting harder and harder to ignore the abysmal save-to-loss ratios of EPAS as a whole without Prime Division on active deployment in Nero-controlled space.

He raises his hand when Spock finishes his briefing.

The DivCO acknowledges him with a nod.

"It might be just me," Jim allows, although is tone suggests it's doubtful, "but why don't we just show them a big blank picture of where Vulcan used to be? I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Robicon is directly in the path that Nero is forging towards the central worlds. What the hell do they _think_ is going to happen when he gets here?"

Six months ago, Jim might have drawn the line at mentioning Vulcan so offhandedly, hell, two months ago he might have had second thoughts, but being around T'Loren so much has blunted his emotional response. He's come to terms with what happened. Right now, at this instant, it is simply another fact to weigh in that Vulcan brain of Spock's, another incentive for recalcitrant recipients of Federation aid.

Spock raises a cool eyebrow. "Whilst I recognise the pertinence of such an example, the destruction of Vulcan is common knowledge. Do you anticipate there would be much to gain by reinforcing this potential outcome for the Robii?"

"There's heaps to gain," Jim nods. "We need to remind them that this isn't some trade agreement we're negotiating here."

"The Robii are no doubt aware of that fact."

Jim slouches in his chair, knees akimbo. "Are they? Cos you could've fooled me."

Spock merely narrows his eyes and demands, "elaborate."

Suddenly it's just the two of them debating a point of logic, and Jim gets a little thrill up his spine. He shrugs, suddenly realizing this isn't an idea best discussed in a public forum. "Forget about it," he says dismissively. "I was just thinking out loud."

Spock gives him a look that could be blank or could be suspicion. Jim gets hints of emotion sometimes, or at least he thinks he does. Bones just scoffs, says it's transference and that he should stop trying to make Spock more human.

Still, the Commander holds eye contact a little longer than usual before turning his attention to the room in general. "If there are no further comments or questions, please report to your assigned duties. Ops, Medical and Point personnel please note there will be a special in service run by Lieutenant Uhura on the correct formal manner of address for Robii diplomatic escorts. The current level of cultural sensitivity practiced has resulted in a number of objections being logged."

The room clears. Jim stands too, but acting on a hunch, he lags behind. There are PADDs he can shuffle and a clasp on his boot he can adjust, so that when he looks up again it's just him and Spock, who is still standing behind the lectern.

Jim straightens and holds his hands out in appeal. "We need to give these people some sense of urgency. I mean, are they even aware that Nero-controlled space now extends past Omicron Cetii? Have they _heard_ about what that bastard did on the Icarus Station or Deep Space Two?" Jim sighs in frustration and disbelief. "Someone needs to tell the Robii that EPAS has better things to do than dedicate this much time to some backwater agricultural world with little strategic value, bad food and worse manners."

Calmly and with no comment on Jim's assessment of Robicon, Spock asks, "how do you propose we accomplish such a thing?"

"We need to scare some sense into them," he replies immediately. "We need to tell them that negotiations are over and we're leaving them to fend for themselves."

Spock's eyebrows level off in the slightest hint of surprise. "The Federation Council would never sanction this course of action."

"I know that. You know that. Hell, anyone with any sense knows that, but do the Robii?"

Spock's face goes blank and unreadable. "You propose a deception."

"I do."

The seconds tick past painfully as Spock considers this bold admission. Jim's eyes never waver and they're wide and blue and completely at ease. Perhaps it's that very comfort with the notion that sways the Commander, Jim can't be sure, but Spock nods once, short and sharp like it never even happened.

"What you propose is dishonourable," the Commander says, because it needs saying.

"Which is exactly why the Robii won't see it coming," Jim replies unapologetically.

"I anticipate difficulty convincing the Diplomatic Corps that this in any way resembles diplomacy." There's the barest hint of wryness in Spock's voice and it makes Jim smile.

"So don't."

Those eyebrows shoot up in a way that clearly says, _I beg your pardon?_

"Don't try to convince them."

"You have an alternative?"

"Sure do. Convince the Robii directly."

"Directly?"

"Yes. Cut to the chase."

Spock huffs lightly through his nose, so Jim knows he's got under that famous thick skin. "What I'm suggesting, Commander, is more of a friendly warning than an official notification."

"And you do not wish this 'friendly warning' to be issued through appropriate diplomatic channels?"

"That would just be counterproductive."

"I fail to comprehend your reasoning," Spock admits with the acceptance of someone who's grown used to substandard working conditions.

"Look," says Jim, resuming his seat and resting his elbows on his knees. It leaves his hands free to gesticulate. "It's been nearly a month now, so I think we've all had a pretty good look at the way things work on Robicon. We know that while they need to be _seen_ to be acting above board, corruption and espionage is rife amongst all socio-political classes. Sitting down at a negotiating table and telling them to get their shit together or we're leaving will just back them into a corner where agreeing to our terms will cause them to lose face. They'll never agree to that." He makes a chopping motion with one palm, wiping the other clean as though clearing the surface of a table, scrapping that idea. "If, however, we made it look like we were preparing to leave without actually saying as much ... well, that might just get their attention."

Spock opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again rather abruptly.

Jim watches and waits.

"Come with me." Spock tucks the papers under his arm and sweeps out of the briefing room.

-:-

Jim knows that while it might not seem like it, getting Spock onside for his underhanded idea is far more difficult that pitching it to Captain Taylor.

He and Spock take the same turbolift to the bridge, standing shoulder to shoulder facing the doors as they close. The levels flick past smoothly, even if it takes longer on this old ship than it would on most other vessels committed to active duty. It's little things like that which remind Jim that the _Stalwart_ is a hard-bitten matriarch of the fleet, and that EPAS is at the bottom of the Council's funding agenda.

The thought gives him a sudden rush of fondness for the old girl, the mission and the life he's chosen to lead. He reaches out and pats the wall affectionately. Spock pretends not to notice, but the tiny crease between his brows gives him away.

"Just being an illogical human," Jim confesses cheerfully.

"Yes."

Jim laughs and folds his arms. They spend the last few seconds of the ride staring straight ahead in comfortable silence, then the doors swish open to reveal Taylor in the captain's chair and the bustling activity of an active deep-space comms station around him.

"DivCO on the bridge," someone calls crisply, and those not engaged in sensitive tasks snap to attention.

Spock acknowledges them with a tilt of his head, releasing them back to their duties with the smoothness of practice. He crosses to the center dais, and if Jim slows slightly to take in the sight of the viewscreen, the Commander may, just possibly, alter his stride to accommodate.

"Captain, a moment of your time, sir?"

"Can it wait, Spock? We're monitoring some signal activity on the border of the Romulan Neutral Zone," Taylor frowns, his bushy grey eyebrows drawing together.

"Of course, sir."

Spock folds his hands in the small of his back and stands tall, waiting. Jim does his best to mimic such patience, but his eyes are continually drawn to the nearest displays, and his ears tease him with snippets of comm chatter. From the projected trajectories on the navigation board and the twang to the Romulan dialect spilling over the channels, it sounds like Nero's fleet is a lot closer than popular belief dictates. The knowledge lends an uncomfortable urgency to the situation and he can feel himself begin to fidget.

Spock sends him a quelling look.

What's more uncomfortable is the fact that it seems that for all his request to delay Spock, the Captain is not actually directly involved in anything currently taking place on the bridge. He's merely frowning at the displays or interrupting his crew to ask for updates before they're ready. The inefficiency of his approach makes Kirk's skin crawl. T'Loren would not approve, and from the increasing tension in Spock's frame, nor does he.

Eventually, even Spock reaches his limit and clears his throat softly.

"Yes?" asks Taylor, as though he has no idea why Spock might still be standing there.

"I have come to discuss a potential avenue for resolving the Robicon IV situation, sir."

"You have an idea?"

"For the sake of accuracy, it is Lieutenant Kirk's idea. However, I have been persuaded of its likely efficacy."

"Really?" Taylor muses, drawing out the word until it sounds torn between surprise and scepticism. "So what is it?"

Spock blinks, and it's only a blink, but it's telling. "Perhaps we should retire to your ready room, sir?"

The Captain stands, tugs his shirt down over his paunch and leads the way with a slightly loose gait typical of those who spend the majority of their life on spaceships. _Oh hell no,_ Jim thinks to himself. _I'd never let myself go like that._

In the end, Spock actually has to spend more time explaining the plan than he does asking for permission to implement it.

"So, the plan is," Taylor tries for the third time, "I tell the command crew what we're up to, and they pretend we're actually leaving?"

Spock does an admirable job of smothering the pained expression on his face and Jim feels sorry for him. What must it be like to be so intelligent and have someone like Taylor as your commanding officer? Sure, given Spock's aptitude scores he probably feels like he's surrounded by idiots all the time, and overly emotional idiots, too. But there has to be a difference between working with people who're slower than you and taking orders from people like Taylor, who has a good reputation amongst those concerned with safety and operations, but little to no credit in strategic or diplomatic circles. Taylor isn't a stupid man, not by any stretch of the imagination; his talents are just extremely specific. Ask him to navigate a relatively unarmed aid fleet through the fringes of a battlefield and he's second to none. Outline a simple subterfuge and here he is, grappling with the idea like a bear with a puzzle box.

For the first time, Jim realizes he's actually been quite lucky in his past commanding officers. Sure, none of them had listened to him, people had died and battles had been lost ... but they'd all had good reasons for the decisions they'd made, even if they'd turned out to be the wrong ones. He momentarily pictures Taylor on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ and can't repress a shudder. Yeah, his experiences in Starfleet could have been worse. What a revelation.

"It's like this, sir," Jim interrupts before Spock can launch into his fourth explanation. "A secret is hard to keep, that's just a fact. So, in order to make this work, we need to keep it between you, me and Spock. Everyone else will think we're giving up and going home."

"And you don't want to tell the Diplomatic Corps?" Taylor asks, as though that couldn't possibly be correct.

"Exactly," Jim points a finger at their Captain and flicks it up as though a weapon has been fired. "Because that would ruin everything."

"It would?"

Jim and Spock exchange a fleeting glance.

"It would, sir," Spock confirms.

Taylor chews his bottom lip and heaves a heavy sigh through his nose. Eventually, after a long pause, his bushy eyebrows descend and he turns a suspicious and frustrated gaze on Spock.

"Just how sure are you that this will work, Commander?"

"Based on the information available, I calculate a seventy two point six percent likelihood of success," he answers without hesitation.

Jim wonders when he worked that out. Probably in the two seconds since Taylor asked the question.

"And if we continue with our current approach to the situation?"

"The chances of coming to a successful diplomatic conclusion to these negotiations before Nero's fleet arrives is less than twenty nine percent."

Taylor nods. "That seals it, then. Kirk, you have my permission to go ahead with your plan. Spock, get him whatever he needs to make this work and I want a clear chain of command documented in the ship's logs. Kirk reports to you and you report to me, all right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Kirk, I'm giving you leave to interfere with whatever operations you need to, just don't leave us hanging in the wind if Nero turns up unexpectedly. That will _not_ go down well back home." Taylor takes a moment to look ill at ease, then points a finger at Spock and waves it sternly. "I'm counting on you to make sure this escapade doesn't get out of hand. He's new at this," Taylor transfers the accusatory finger to Kirk. "Don't let him screw it up."

"Of course not, sir," Spock accepts readily, as though it is commonplace for a junior Lieutenant and a Divisional Commander to circumvent diplomatic channels and assume full control over active operations in hostile territory with little to no involvement from their Captain.

"And don't let me look like an ass," Taylor snaps as a parting shot, making his way to the door. "Make sure I know what's happening on my own goddamn ship."

"Yes, sir," both Jim and Spock chorus as the door swishes closed.

Alone in the Captain's ready room, they share another glance. Spock's face is utterly unreadable. Jim makes no secret of his astonishment.

"I really didn't expect him to put me in charge of this."

"No," Spock agrees, "neither did I."

  
-:-

  
Before Kirk has a chance to even consider wielding his newly ordained authority, the _Stalwart_ is called away from the dead-in-the-water evacuation of Robicon IV to attend a particularly nasty engagement between Federation forces and a rogue Klingon warlord. As if it's not enough that Nero is pounding them along one Neutral Zone, the Klingons have decided to take advantage of StarFleet's preoccupation with all things Romulan and engage the hopelessly over-committed Federation fleet from another angle.

First shift in, Alpha team disembark Nix with a weary efficiency that speaks volumes for what Beta team can expect to find out there. Kirk's been monitoring their frequencies since he woke up, so he's anticipating the biggest blow before it comes. Still, when McCoy dashes past with Ashe on a stretcher it clenches his gut uncomfortably. That's followed by the shock he feels when Spock appears. The Commander's composed face is white with fatigue, he's pulled a double to fly Alpha so close on the heels of shuttling the Diplomatic Corps around, and it shows. When he draws near enough, Kirk can see that his eyes are narrowed and his mouth tight.

Chekov, standing by Jim's elbow, squirms with discomfort. They'd been sitting together in the mess, monitoring Alpha's frequencies when Ashe got hurt and Spock called it in; his tightly controlled request for 'immediate beam-out, crew emergency, grade three' unable to be processed due to Klingon hostilities. McCoy was forced to simply stabilize her on Nix and go for a hardlock transfer to sickbay rather than beam. If Jim had been less worried about Ashe, he might have been more impressed by Bones' colourful invective.

"Alpha shift reports one major injury but no vital system failures," Spock begins without any of the emotional preamble that might have come from a human. He pointedly ignores the fact that Jim keeps glancing over his shoulder to check on Ashe.

"Well, that's something," Jim offers, taking the handover so that T'Loren can focus on the mission stats and latest evac co-ordinates for their outbound flight. He'll brief her on anything important before they're slingshotted out. Not all crews operate this way, but T'Loren is always more focussed on the facts and figures rather than the impressions of those who've just returned from the fray. Jim hasn't failed to notice that Spock never leaves it to Ashe to take handover, even if he's up to his neck in DivCO responsibilities.

Spock inclines his head in a weary nod, the gesture far less precise than usual. "Indeed. However, you will find that the port side grapple is only operating at sixty one point nine percent efficiency. In addition, both the port runner and line locks on that side have been damaged beyond repair. It will be necessary to maneuver in such a way that Point deployment occurs only from the starboard side." Spock's eyes drift to where Chekov, Hannity and Uhura are now having a confab. "No doubt this information is already being relayed to your astrogation crew."

Kirk peers around the Commander to take in the damage. The hull plating is buckled and the runner bent to uselessness. Scorch marks meander down the side, culminating in an external hull breach that the maintenance crews are hurriedly trying to patch. He lifts his eyes back to Spock's face and for the first time notices the bruises beginning to form down his left cheekbone, dark green and vibrant yellow. The eye on that side is rapidly swelling and Jim can see the scattered pressure bruises where Spock's visor took the worst of the impact.

"You were _on_ that runner when it was hit?"

"... Affirmative."

Jim reaches out and carefully steadies Spock by his uninjured right shoulder, only now detecting the slight sway. "Bones!"

The doctor hears the urgency in his tone and looks up. His eyes narrow when he notices Kirk's hand on the Commander. Spock doesn't tolerate physical contact from anyone. The doctor crosses the deck in record time, tricorder in hand.

"Of all the stupid, knuckle-headed, irresponsible ..." he begins scathingly, bathing Spock in the scintillating lights of his medical scanner. "I know you're Vulcan and rather more durable than us lowly mortals, but I can't treat you if you don't disclose the full extent of your injuries!"

"There were more pressing concerns, doctor."

Deliberately, nobody looks at the place where medics are still crowded around Ashe's stretcher. She's not even stable enough to move to sickbay, yet.

"Lord save us from your sense of priorities!" McCoy mocks, signalling with his head for another stretcher crew. "A dislocated shoulder is a pressing concern in my book, especially when, as you very well know, a medevac shuttle can be called upon to deploy its Points at any given moment! Ashe was already out of the picture, Spock, I needed to know about this when it happened."

"As you can plainly see, Doctor, my shoulder is not dislocated."

If it's possible, McCoy's scowl deepens even further. "Oh and what a great idea that was, putting it back in yourself! This amount of soft tissue damage is going to take at least forty eight hours to regenerate, even if I was willing to push it, _which_ I'm not! Sometimes there's no telling how your hybrid physiology reacts to deep treatments. You can count yourself out of any missions scheduled for the next seventy two hours, doctor's orders."

The stretcher bearers arrive and Spock shoots them a look that has Jim stepping back involuntarily, even though it isn't directed at him.

"I do not require your services."

"The hell you don't!" McCoy spits. "Or are you planning on walking all the way to sick bay with dangerously low body temperature and internal bleeding? You told me you weren't on that runner when we got hit and I believed you. I _believed_ you!" McCoy crows with laughter. "You're a piece of work, you know that? Now get on the goddamn stretcher!"

"I will not."

McCoy steps up to Spock until they're toe to toe and drops his voice to a steely whisper, which is somehow more terrifying than his usual bluster. "Get your skinny green ass on that stretcher, or so help me God, I'm going to write you up for disobeying a direct medical order, you got that?"

Spock holds his ground but Jim feels him tense through the fingers that still rest on his shoulder. It seems impossible that Spock would argue so logical a course of action, and yet here he stands, having a staring contest with McCoy. The tension builds and builds, and so does their audience, as more and more of the other crews, maintenance personnel and medical staff leave off what they're doing to watch the showdown. Even T'Loren pauses with one hand half-raised to indicate something to the maintenance crews, interrupted mid-sentence by the power play. Kirk has the feeling that this is about to turn spectacularly ugly and that for some reason, it's fallen to him to return sanity to the universe.

With conscious effort, he loosens his grip on Spock, changing it into something a little less panicked. He steps closer, intruding on the little contest of wills by sticking a shoulder between them. He faces Spock, who's eyes never waver from McCoy's apoplectic face. Jim finds he has a new appreciation for the doctor's bravery. No way in hell he ever wants to see that Vulcan death stare turned on him.

"Commander," he tries evenly, carefully. "Standard procedure dictates that all crew who are in danger of exacerbating existing injuries by ambulating to sick bay should be transported on a stretcher."

There is the barest hint of something like rationality in Spock's eyes. Jim decides to try again. Hell, if he does get taken to pieces, at least there's a full medical complement standing by to put him back together again.

"Spock," he shifts, searching for the right angle, hoping he's not pushing the bounds of courtesy far enough to earn him a demonstration of Vulcan strength. He drops his voice for privacy. "There are a whole lot of people standing around who respect you. They look at you and they see their DivCO, they see the service, hell, they see the kind of Point they want to be." Jim licks his lips and edges a little more into Spock's line of sight, forcing those dark eyes to fix on him. "You've got nothing to prove here. Take the damn stretcher, let Bones do his job."

Spock waits one perfectly measured breath. In and out. Then he pushes past them and, his disapproval barely contained, settles himself on the stretcher. The two bearers glance at McCoy with terrified eyes. He shoos them towards sick bay with a wave of his hand.

Jim breathes a sigh of relief and rolls his shoulders like he would after a workout. When Spock is out of earshot, he turns to Bones and cracks a huge grin. "Fuck me."

"Yeah, well," Bones scowls at his tricorder and tucks it away. "That was quite some speech. Never figured you for a diplomat."

Jim claps him on the shoulder, making him sway with the force of it. "I have hidden depths," he says, gracing the doctor with a shit-eating grin.

McCoy begins to chuckle despite his lingering fury. "I can see that," he drawls "Tell you what. Saving my sorry old hide from a Vulcan ass-kicking deserves a thank you. Drop by my quarters when you get off duty and you can meet a good friend of mine called Saurian brandy."

Already walking towards Nix, Jim turns on his heel and makes guns out of his hands, "you're on," then spins and keeps walking without losing momentum. Behind him, McCoy can see T'Loren standing at perfect attention, every line of her body radiating disapproval even though none of it reaches her perfectly composed face.

  
-:-

  
Bones watches the young Point spring lightly up the intact starboard runner and disappear with Beta shift into the medevac shuttle. He thinks about the gap Sally Morrison has left on their team. He thinks about how T'Loren keeps pushing and pushing Jim, trying to find the place where he falls short of her impossible expectations. He thinks about the apparent disregard Spock has for his own life when Ashe's not there to moderate him and the terrible price she nearly paid today for trying to keep him alive. It hasn't escaped him that Jim couldn't resist one last glance in Ashe's direction before he boarded.

McCoy decides to talk to Admiral Pike about switching up a few things.


	11. chapter 3.1

Ten hours later Jim yanks his visor off so hard that the membranous EVA pulls at his scalp when he peels it away. He grips it in his fist, pulling so it tears at the collar, not caring how he's going to explain that to Requisitions. He slams into the male showers and throws the lot at the lockers as hard as he can. The plassteel doesn't so much as dent and neither does the tough transparent aluminum visor, but the noise makes him feel better.

Chekov mutters something in Russian and Jim whips round to scowl at him, not having realized he's been followed.

The kid raises his hands in the air, collar of his Pilot's uniform flapping open to reveal an arrow of sweat soaking the t-shirt beneath. "I am saying nothing."

"Good, 'cos I don't want to hear it."

Jim strips methodically, throwing his field blacks into the cycler with a viciousness that clothes don't deserve. He's seething with anger, teeth clenched so tight his jaw hurts.

"Okay," Chekov apologizes. "I am saying just one thing ..."

"Don't," Jim warns. "Seriously, don't."

"I cannot watch you do this to yourself," the kid protests, shrugging awkwardly out of his own shirt. "Every time it is like this," he continues, voice muffled inside his shirt before it pops free and he shakes his curly head. "It is killing me on the inside."

"Stop there," Jim steps into a sonic shower. "I really, really don't want to hear how mommy and daddy fighting is breaking your prepubescent heart."

"What would you have me do?" Chekov exclaims, voice pitched high with frustration, echoing around the room as he slips into the cubicle next to Jim's. "You must stop thinking only of yourself. It is Christine and myself who must listen to you and the Lieutenant Commander bicker like married couple ower the comms."

Jim sticks his head around the corner to gape at the young Pilot. "You did not just say that."

"Yes, I did," Chekov nods decisively, hands on his naked hips, looking very defiant. "You and T'Loren fight like old women in my willage."

"I'm going to have to kick your ass for that."

"Granted, most people are not liking the Lieutenant Commander, this is a fact," the boy continues, oblivious to Jim's outrage. "However, Uhura has been saying that not even Admiral Pike fought with her quite so much as you do."

Kirk's eyes widen in surprise. "Pike and T'Loren didn't get along?"

"Uhura says no, and according to doctor McCoy, Uhura is knowing everything."

Jim pouts, not bothering to argue the truth of that statement. "What else did Uhura say about Pike and Lieutenant Commander Tightass?"

"Oh no," Chekov shakes his head and smiles. "I am not giving you ammunition. I should not have said anything, only I am tired of all the banging and crashing during decontamination." He presses a hand against his skinny white chest. "It is hard on my nerves, you know."

"On your ..." Jim's face performs a series of extreme expressions before settling on fond exasperation.

"Listen," Chekov says wisely, blue eyes wide in his boyish face. "No good will come of continuing to confront T'Loren during a mission. Instead, you should address your concerns with her before our next assignment. If you lodge a request for a formal dispute resolution, she will have no choice but to take you seriously. She cannot keep asking you to do these dangerous things," the boy's blue eyes are earnest. "Today was too close."

Jim rests his face against the cold wall of the cubicle and considers that. "You know, Chekov, if you didn't look like a twelve year old girl I might stop forgetting how smart you are."

"Thank you, sir," he nods sharply, grinning.

Jim rolls his eyes and steps back under the sonics. This time, the gentle massage is soothing.

  
-:-

  
"Bones," Jim calls, catching himself on the door to McCoy's office in sickbay. "I need to ask you a really important question."

"For the last time, no, Jim. I will not go to the interdepartmental dance with you."

Kirk waves a dismissive hand between them and steps into the room. "Forget about that, like, all together."

McCoy's expressive eyebrows shoot up. "It's all you've been bugging me about for the last week and a half, and now you want me to just forget about it?"

"Important question," Jim reiterates, snapping the fingers on both hands. "Focus, Bones."

"Get your limbs out of my face and tell me what the hell you want, already."

"Will you mediate a formal dispute resolution for me?"

He sighs heavily. "Who's filed against you this time?"

"What ..." Jim's earnest face morphs into an offended pout. "Why does everyone always assume it's me?"

"Because it usually is, that's why!" McCoy pushes back from his desk and stands, leaning over it to get up into Kirk's personal space. "So if it's you who's filed the complaint, that means it's going to be against one of two people, me or T'Loren, and since even you're not dumb enough to try getting me to mediate a dispute lodged against myself, I can only assume you're about to commit career suicide."

"Bones, I would never file a complaint against you."

McCoy points at his terminal with one accusing finger. "Two last week!" he howls, "all over this ridiculous dance!"

"You really hurt my feelings when you said no the first six times ..."

"Spock pulled me aside in the corridor yesterday," McCoy whispers in pained voice. "I think he was trying to offer me relationship advice. He thinks we're a goddamn _couple!_."

"Oh hell," says Jim, fighting down the laughter.

"Wipe that smile off your face!" He points that selfsame finger at Jim. "It was awkward, I don't mind saying."

"Do you think if I ask Hannity really nicely she could get me some stills from the security cameras? I want to see that conversation."

"You do that and I'll cut you off," McCoy threatens, voice low and dangerous. "I mean it, Jim. You can forget about your sinus shots, your allergy shots and your damn hangover cures. We'll see how smug you are with your head all filled up with fluid and your fingers swollen to twice their usual size. Don't think I've forgotten you're allergic to polycarbonitrates! Twenty four hours without a hypo from me and you'll explode out of your EVA suit like an overripe ..."

"Bones, Bones, Bones," Jim soothes. "I would never. Besides, Hannity doesn't like me that much."

"Of all the ..."

"So will you do it?"

"No!" he snaps. "Absolutely not!"

"But Bones ..."

"Stop whining! How old are you, anyway?" McCoy admonishes, walking around the desk with the air of a man on a mission. "I'm not going to mediate your damn dispute. What's more, I'd advise you not to make the complaint in the first place and to withdraw it if you've already been stupid enough to place it."

"No," Jim shakes his head, suddenly serious. "I can't take it anymore. I've got to stand up and say something or someone's going to get hurt, and it's one thing if it's me, but an entirely different matter if it's someone else. Bones, what if it's Chekov or Chris?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, you idiot, I know how to keep you safe _and_ keep you aboard Nix."

"You can't fix this, Bones," Jim shakes his head defeatedly. "I'm not even sure I can, but I have to try."

McCoy takes a few steps away, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't blame you for missing it," he says suddenly conversational. "Lord knows I wasn't sure myself until you and Chekov came along to prove me right."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"T'Loren's not hard on you because you're Jim Kirk." McCoy is watching him intently. "She's not hard on you because you're new, or inexperienced or human or any combination of the above," he continues, confidence oozing from every pore. "If that were the case, she'd be just as hard on Chekov. Jim, she's hard on you because you were at Vulcan."

The simplicity of it strikes Jim dumb.

McCoy nods and grips him by the shoulder. "You see it now, don't you?"

"But that's ..."

"Illogical?" McCoy smiles sadly. "You don't think she knows that?"

The implications chase themselves around Jim's brain, churning out complication after complication and leading to the inevitable and explosively unpleasant conclusion that unless he stops working with T'Loren or she gets help, shit is going to go down.

"Son of a bitch." Jim sinks, slow motion, into the chair McCoy has placed behind him for that express purpose.

"There you go."

"You're right, I didn't see it."

"You didn't want to," McCoy counters. "Fancy that drink I owe you?"

Jim nods mutely, accepts the glass and obediently takes a sip. The fiery liquid sinks into his stomach, finally shattering the feeling of paralysis. "My God, Bones, what do I do?"

"You tread very carefully, that's what."

"I could get her fired," he realizes aloud. "Discharged from active service for discrimination and worse."

"Endangering the lives of fellow crew members and subordinates as a result of poor judgment, willful neglect or emotional compromise." McCoy waggles his eyebrows. "Stolen directly from Starfleet standing orders and incorporated into the EPAS operational charter."

"Emotional compromise," Jim echoes, a wan smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. "You couldn't find a better reason for it."

"For all that you're justified, Jim, don't file that complaint."

"Oh, I won't," he says, realizing as he says it that it's true. He never could, not now, not knowing what he knows. "Still, I can't ... we can't ..."

"I've got a plan," McCoy confides, topping up Jim's glass quite generously. "You can't stay working for her, but she's an asset to EPAS, an experienced Point and a proven leader. Just because nothing you do will ever be good enough shouldn't mean the universe has to do without her single-bloody-mindedness in a crisis. It's all kinds of wrong, but rest assured I'll be approaching her through proper channels. Whether she talks to me or some voodoo mind healer on New Vulcan, I don't care, but this has to be addressed. Just don't become a victim of prejudice before I sort this out, you hear me? Pull sick days if you have to, I'll back you up, but I don't want to hear about her throwing you to the wolves again." McCoy pulls a complicatedly outraged face. "My God man, there were still phasers firing in that sector when she sent you in!"

Jim nods, sips his drink and then asks the question he can't quite bring himself to smother. "Why are you doing this? For her, I mean?"

The doctor raises his glass to his lips and tilts it, letting the amber liquid brush his lips but never taking his eyes from Kirk's face. "You do my job, you see what I see, and you begin to realize that we're surrounded by the walking wounded. We're none of us quite whole, Jim. Some of us just hide it better than others." He sets the glass down on the desk and stares at it. "I'm a doctor," he shrugs, seeming confident that says it all. "It's who I am."

  
-:-

  
Spock has, once again, discharged himself against medical orders and is working from the terminal in his quarters. McCoy has the tendency to keep him as an inpatient far longer than is really necessary, muttering about his 'weird hybrid physiology' and various other uncomplimentary considerations. Spock has spent quite enough of his life being an oddity. He is unwilling to endure the moments that illustrate his innate difference simply to appease the doctor, no matter how often he threatens to report him. The only difference is that, this time, McCoy _has_ reported him. To Admiral Christopher Pike.

Spock does not anticipate that this will be an easy conversation.

"Admiral."

"Spock, what in blue blazes is wrong with you?"

Pike is glaring at him from behind a desk, and even given that, Spock feels a slight satisfaction that his prediction was accurate. Although he may never truly comprehend human emotion, to possess an ability to foresee it is certainly advantageous.

"I have no doubt that doctor McCoy has forwarded a full inventory of my recent injuries to your terminal."

"Don't get smart with me."

"I assure you, I intend no disrespect."

Pike narrows his eyes, but seems to remain uncertain of Spock's motivations. They worked together many years, but both are reminded again of the distance that still lies between them, geography aside.

"You have several crews in your Division with unacceptable injury rates, Commander, and your personal statistics don't bear mentioning," Pike says, obviously deciding that accusing Spock of sarcasm is a pointless exercise.

"I am aware of the fact. My latest status report details the steps I have taken to remedy the situation."

"I know, I've read it." If anything, Pike looks more frustrated than angry now. "Shore leave, crew rotations, cross-specialization for stress relief; Spock, they're all great ideas."

He waits for the equivocator he knows to expect when Pike uses that tone.

"But what's really worrying me is the psych evals."

"As you are well aware, due to the nature of the EPAS command structure, Captain Taylor is privy to the contents of the Chief Medical Officer's psychological evaluations, and I am not."

"Which is why we're having this conversation," Pike nods at him. "It's a stupid rule, keeping the Divisional Commanders out of the loop like that; a hangover from the Starfleet structure we inherited. It makes no sense. I'm going to use this situation as further leverage to have that directive overturned at the next Council meeting."

"That is logical." Spock pauses, then allows a hint of his irritation with the present modus operandi to show. "And most gratifying."

"In the meantime, I'm using my prerogative as an Admiral to make you aware of the fact that some of your crew are skirting dangerously close to the edge of unpleasantness."

"Unpleasantness has variable definitions," Spock says cautiously.

"Humans do tend to be variable," Pike reminds him, his tone exasperated. "I'll forward the most urgent handful to your terminal. McCoy's aware of my intent to do so, and strangely, given your tumultuous working relationship, he suggested the idea." Pike shakes his head and a wry smile finds its way onto his lips. "Whatever you originally did to piss him off, I'll never know, but he likes you, Spock. Underneath all that bluster, he does like you."

Unsure how best to respond to that assertion, Spock waits calmly for Pike to continue. The fact that the Admiral also seems to be waiting for him to speak leaves a tense pause in the conversation.

Back when Spock was Pike's One, it was moments like these when the older man would reach out physically with a tap or a brush on his shoulder, arm or the back of his hand; a cautious, platonic, fleeting human gesture of reassurance. To his surprise, Spock instantly recalls Lieutenant Kirk, a hand on his shoulder in the shuttle bay, human cool through the fabric. It is a distinctly unsettling involuntary association.

"I wanted to talk to you about one person in particular," Pike says, no doubt realizing that Spock will not speak unless it is to end the transmission.

"Indeed?"

"James Kirk," Pike says, as though it should be all he needs to say.

Spock hides the twinge of shock born of coincidence and extrapolates quickly. "Kirk is amongst the subset who are experiencing psychological difficulty?"

Pike gives him a lopsided smile. "Come on, Spock, you of all people should know what frustrated genius feels like."

After a moment's pause, feeling strangely taken aback, Spock allows himself a small frown. "I am not certain I understand."

"He's sitting there in Nix Beta, working his ass off, already pulling cross-specialization, helping out in the computer labs, volunteering to run intake orientation and sporting one of the highest save-to-loss ratios in the whole damn organization, let alone his Division. Then consider his inordinately high injury rate and the fact that T'Loren has to be aware, but still volunteers her crew for lead on every deployment." Pike waves his hands at the screen in frustration. "Doesn't that tell you something?"

"T'Loren is a competent senior Point Two," Spock reasons aloud. "It is logical for her to co-ordinate Beta deployments. She does not do so exclusively. Lieutenants Devlin and Mackie also share the responsibility."

"Spock, I'm not accusing you of partisanship." Pike watches him carefully to make sure he's believed before continuing. "Let me put this another way ..." he steeples his fingers and presses them to his lips before dropping them to the table and taking a deep breath. "If Lieutenant Kirk were under your direct command and you were aware of all the issues we've just discussed, including the fact he's utterly over committed himself, would you be volunteering Nix Alpha for lead Point? Or would you perhaps co-ordinate from a more strategic tactical position, letting someone else fly lead to give you the opportunity to better evaluate Kirk's state of mind?"

Spock feels the first clench of uncertainty in his gut. "You ask a question to which you already know the answer."

"Yes," Pike nods. "So why is T'Loren doing differently?"

"I do not know." The confession sets Spock's heart racing uncomfortably. "I shall investigate the matter immediately."

"You don't have time for an investigation," Pike counters. "I've got Kirk's resignation in my hand." The Admiral shifts in his seat, lightyears away and frowns like a father with a son who's done something predictably stupid but strangely endearing. "Spock, I gave you Kirk for safekeeping, and now you've gone and broken him."

Awkwardly, Spock considers his responses and finds none of them satisfactory. "What would you suggest?"

"You're his Commander, so go command him."

"In what fashion should ..."

"Transfer him to Alpha." Pike's tone leaves no room for Spock to interpret that as a suggestion. "Ashe's out of the picture for a lengthy period, you already need to rotate crew. I'll leave the finer points to you, but don't leave Kirk hanging in the breeze."

"The Lieutenant has not always responded positively to my command in the past. On what facts do you base your assumption that he will benefit from this transfer?"

"Intuition," Pike says without hesitation. "Spock, there's a big difference between issuing general orders and being somebody's Point Two. After all the time we worked together, I thought you had a better understanding of what it takes to forge that kind of connection. We're human, Spock, and you're half human, much as you like to ignore that fact. There has to be something in you that speaks to the humanity in us. That's why I had no doubt in approving you as my replacement, and that's why I sent you Jim Kirk when I had half of the Federation damning me for accepting him into EPAS and the majority of EPAS clamoring to get their hands on him. Kirk needs more than a set of orders and someone competent to issue them, far more than that to reach his true potential, and the more I think about what the two of you could achieve together, the more I believe it's absolutely essential that you make this work."

"You are asking me to take a special interest in Lieutenant Kirk?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"You are asking me to befriend him." Spock says the word cautiously.

"Would it kill you, Spock? Really?"

Spock may or may not purse his lips slightly.

Pike sighs. "I'm not saying take your shore leave together, sing songs around a campfire and develop a secret handshake. I'm saying that this is a deficit in your command style that ought to be rectified if you're going to continue to evolve in your role as Divisional Commander. This also needs to happen if we're going to manage to keep Jim Kirk employed with EPAS and, more importantly, alive and well."

Of course, Pike knows exactly what to say in order to make Spock consider the whole issue his personal shortcoming. Although he is perfectly aware that he has been manipulated, and expertly too, Spock cannot find it within himself to resent it. To his knowledge, the Admiral has never maneuvered him into doing anything that has resulted in an adverse outcome for any party involved. Whatever his base motivation, and Spock is certain that Pike has not fully revealed it, he can proceed sure in the knowledge that benevolence is at the heart of it. This much Spock can rely upon.

"How do you propose I implement your suggestion?"

Pike frowns and rubs at his temple with one hand. "I wish I knew what it would take, but I've known that boy half his life and I still don't understand what makes him tick."

Spock waits patiently, familiar with the long pauses in Pike's exposition.

"He's an open book and an utter mystery, I don't need to tell you - acts like he couldn't care less about anything but will throw himself off a drill platform to save a man he's only just met that day," Pike shrugs, a picture of resigned confusion. "Speaking of Sulu, his glowing report crossed my desk about the same time McCoy's psych evals did. That young Captain has nothing but good things to say about both of you, but especially Jim. Kirk's got something special, Spock, something any Admiral would pay good money for; people _like_ him, plain and simple." Pike shakes his head, dissatisfied. "No, it's more than that. It's as though they instinctively trust him on sight, even though it's plain to see he's lying through his teeth half the time. I don't know all the details of his childhood, but I can conceive a little of what's created him. You can't grow up like he did, see the things he saw, lose the people he lost, and not be changed by it. That's why I think he needs you." The Admiral leans forward and stabs his finger into the desk. "Much as you hate to admit it, you two have a lot in common."

Spock quirks a solitary eyebrow. "I cannot conceive of anything pertinent."

Pike looks suddenly far less tolerant. "Commander, Kirk's not bullshitting, he _will_ resign. I don't have time to dance around your Vulcan sensibilities."

Spock's face settles into utterly impassive lines, all traces of expression abruptly eliminated. "You consider Lieutenant Kirk's ongoing employment to be my responsibility."

"It's your new top priority," Pike corrects him. "We can't afford to lose a Point of his caliber, and personally, I know this kid; he can't afford to leave. I gave him to you, Spock, because I thought you'd be able to cut through the persona and get the best out of him. I'm not quite sure what's going wrong, but if McCoy's last report is any indication it has a lot to do with T'Loren. Now, I'm not trying to manage your Division for you, but when a commanding officer of her experience contributes to a situation that continually results in a member of her crew being injured, well, I'm rather surprised you haven't looked into it yourself."

Spock swallows involuntarily as he mentally compares all known statistics regarding Kirk's deployments to those of other newly promoted Points. "It seemed logical to assume that Lieutenant Kirk's injury rate was related to his comparatively high save-to-loss ratio and his propensity for committing to a situation with less than an ideal degree of forethought and planning."

Pike smothers a smile. "I've no doubt that's a part of it. God knows it seems that boy has a death wish sometimes, but I get the feeling McCoy is leaving selective holes in the transcripts of their counseling sessions."

Spock cannot hide all of his surprise. "Kirk is receiving individual psychological counseling?"

Pike's expression mirrors his own. "T'Loren didn't tell you?"

Spock ponders this for a moment and his face settles back into expressionlessness, although with a harder edge. "No, she did not."

Pike's lips thin and he nods his head, grey-blue eyes piercing even across parsecs. "Well, that's interesting, don't you think?"

Spock gives him a look that speaks volumes and yet says nothing whatsoever. "If that will be all, Admiral?"

"Yes, Commander, I think that will be all."

Spock ends the transmission and leans back slightly in his chair. He takes a few moments to identify the emotions rising within him; anger, betrayal, concern, and pushes them aside. He does not need to consult the computer to verify the time, he already knows it, and exactly where T'Loren will be. With a firm grip on his human side, Spock chooses not to prolong the inevitable.

  
-:-

  
Jim is warm and lethargic from the showers, his ears ringing with Chekov's amusing accent and wide-eyed innocence. Chapel had been whisked away to sickbay the second they docked, deep in the throes of maintaining an airway for some Klingon bastard or another. He missed her presence in the mess hall, even if Uhura took pity on him and didn't flounce off when he dumped his tray next to hers and offered a lopsided smile. He hit on her one time, _one damn time_ , and she's never forgiven him for it.

Now, alone in his cramped quarters, he's sitting propped up by pillows with an apple in one hand and a book in another. There's a comm from Sulu waiting in the queue, but he's saving it for his day off or whenever his resignation comes through, whichever comes first. He hasn't told anyone he's already submitted it, not Sulu, not even Bones. It's the third time since joining EPAS that he's almost done it, had his finger poised over the send key, but this time the only thing he really regrets is not being able to see if his gambit on Robicon IV is going to be successful or not. He was kind of looking forward to seeing if he could make Spock tell a bald-faced lie. He smiles at the thought.

When the door chime sounds he pauses mid-chew, one cheek puffed out with apple, surprised. There's an unspoken rule among Points that when you hide out in your quarters, other people don't track you down unless they have reason to believe you want them to. He frowns, trying to remember if he's forgotten that Bones is coming, or Scotty with a deck of cards. It's definitely not Chekov; that kid looked dead on his feet, and come to think of it, Bones has started ignoring him because he hasn't forced himself to visit Ashe in recovery.

The chime sounds again.

"Enter."

"Holy shit, Jim!" Hannity explodes into the room, looking breathless, her perfectly coiffed hair in disarray. "Quick, get up, get dressed, put that book down!"

"Why?" But he's already moving, desperately swallowing, taking aim at the trash with his apple core, a perfect shot even though he's in the process of pulling a regulation shirt over his head. "I didn't hear the alert, what's the situation?"

"T'Loren's on her way over here like hell on a freight train," Hannity says, eyes wide and freckles standing out painfully against the paleness of her face. "Do you want me to call security? Shit Jim, what do you want me to do?"

"Whoah, whoah," Jim holds out a hand, other arm and his head in the shirt. "What the hell? Security? For a Vulcan?"

Hannity leans closer, grips him by the shoulders, her nails digging into the skin. "She and Spock had some kind of argument, I don't know the details, but she held it together until Spock left and then she trashed the gym cubicle." Hannity licks her lips nervously. "Trashed it, Jim, like ripped the equipment out of the _wall_ , trashed it."

"Fuck."

"I don't know what Spock said to her, but she's not happy and she's looking for you."

"Okay," Jim pulls on the hem of his undershirt and stamps his feet into his boots. "Look, you better get out of here."

"What about you?"

Jim doesn't have any time to think so he says the first thing that comes to mind. "Find Spock, bring him here."

"But what if ..."

"Get!"

"Okay," she nods, "oh hell."

Jim watches her tear off down the corridor, boots drumming on the grating, short black skirt flying.

This thing between him and T'Loren has been brewing forever, and it's worse now that Jim knows what drives her to put him in the firing line. It was hard enough to work with her before McCoy had shed light on that little gem, but since ... well, it was the reason he'd filed his resignation. There's only so long a guy can wait to die before he has to take matters into his own hands. Bones means well, but it's too little too late. Jim doesn't know what else to do with his life, but he sure as hell isn't ready for it to be over just yet.

He's bending to get his boots fastened when T'Loren gains access to his quarters, abusing her override code. He doesn't even get a chance to straighten before she leaps at him, a vision of feral fury, her fists like iron clubs, raining down on him from above.

"Kirk!" she roars, hammering him with blow after blow.

Jim can't dodge fast enough so he puts the desk between them, gasping to get the breath back into his body. T'Loren looks like a Romulan, unrecognizable in the grip of emotion. Her raven hair is awry, dark eyes shadowed under vicious brows. Jim feints to the left, certain she's too far gone to realize it's a ploy, only to have her grab him by the throat and haul him bodily over the terminal, sending it crashing to the ground. Quickly, in desperation, he lands a few punches of his own, but it's like hitting a brick wall. He can feel one knuckle grate unpleasantly but can't stop to wonder if it's fractured.

"Lieutenant Commander!" he manages to gasp, trying to use words to jolt her back into some sense of control or logic, but she's beyond language, beyond words, a twisting, swirling maelstrom of aggression that chews him up and spits him out against the wall of his cabin. He manages to glance up, to see the angled palm that's going to crash down on his windpipe and end him, but it never falls.

She's jerked abruptly away. A shadow falls over him, blocking the overhead lighting. Jim blinks desperately, trying to clear the blood from his eyes with his sleeve. He hears a body hit the opposite wall with a bone-crunching thud.

A tall, lean figure resolves in Jim's blurred vision. Spock now stands between him and T'Loren, having adopted a wide stance, loose-limbed, hands open at his sides.

"Lieutenant Commander T'Loren, you will explain yourself."

" _Viltah!_ " she spits at him, flushed green with her anger, already scrambling back to her feet. " _Dom! Nash-veh au nis-tor zarahk-tor!_ "

Jim knows enough Vulcan to understand that she's just called Spock a pretty bad word and indicated her intention to really mess both of them up. Needing to look less vulnerable, he forces himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. It's a mere pretense of having Spock's back, but it makes him feel a little better. Can't let a dude take a beating for you while cowering on the floor. Not cool.

Spock doesn't so much as glance in his direction, all his quiet outrage focused on T'Loren. Because there's no doubt in Jim's mind that he's outraged; it's written in every line of his body.

" _Dungau gla-tor etek_ ," Spock says coldly. _We shall see._

T'Loren flashes perfect white teeth in a snarl. " _Tkona_ ," she demands.

"I will not," Spock says firmly. "Control yourself, T'Loren."

"You stand before me, blood of Vulcan in your veins, to shield an outsider who stood by and watched our planet be destroyed! You would honor him before me?" All at once, T'Loren is gasping, buckling under the weight of her own intense emotion. "Traitor," she sobs, folding in on herself a little more. "You are without logic."

"And you are emotionally compromised," Spock observes coldly. "The fault is mine for failing to detecting this instability after our discussion."

"There is no justice," T'Loren whispers, eyes frantically casting around the room until they find Jim's own. "No justice, no peace, no logic left to any of us," she tells him brokenly. "Why are you alive and they dead?"

The intense expression of grief on her face is gutting. Jim can't help the sting in his eyes, the tightness in his chest. He wants to forgive her, wants to say he understands, but is too bruised, too battered and filled with adrenaline for his finer feelings to dominate. It's been too many days both admiring her and fearing her to make that transition.

"Commander Spock to Security." Spock never takes his eyes from T'Loren's body, leaning on the wall he threw her against.

 _We're nearly there, sir._

"Acknowledged."

They wait a handful of tense seconds, then the five person team arrives, phasers drawn and set to stun. Each takes a moment to absorb the chaotic scene before their masks of professionalism slip firmly into place.

"Take Lieutenant Commander T'Loren to the brig," Spock directs them. "Ensure she has medical assistance rendered, but do not allow anyone inside her cell without a full security escort."

"Understood, sir."

They grab her by the upper arms, physical handling the ultimate indignity for a Vulcan, but Spock waves and they step back again. He approaches her, seeming utterly relaxed, switched from defender to curious scientist. "Do you truly believe this man's life is forfeit?"

She glares at him with dark eyes. "Would you not trade him for your mother? A mere human for another mere human, or either of them for any Vulcan?"

Jim watches Spock's hands flick to fists at his sides then deliberately, painstakingly relax into openness again.

"Your grief has made you blind. My mother believed there is balance in all things," Spock says, unable to disguise the catch in his voice. "I would not presume a greater understanding of the universe than her own."

"My bondmate," T'Loren whispers, "the other half of my soul, how can I be alive and him dead? Without him, I am nothing. A ghost."

" _Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_ ," he says softly, trying to get T'Loren to meet his eyes.

Jim recognizes one of Surak's most famous sayings: _Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear._

"I am not afraid," T'Loren insists, lifting her chin.

Spock closes the distance between them in two quick strides and takes her wrist between his fingers and thumb, making her flinch at the emotional transference. "I feel your fear like sand on the wind; taste it like dust in my mouth. Do not presume to lie to me when so much offense has already been given." With that, he releases her and Security form up, marching her out into the corridor where a steady crowd is building.

Outside the door, Jim recognizes Hannity's tearful face buried in Uhura's shoulder, while Chekov has obviously come running straight from sleep, his pyjamas slung low on his hips, childlike eyes wide with shock. It's Chapel who's galvanized to action first, stepping neatly around Spock who's still standing in the middle of the room, struggling to compose himself.

"Are you all right, Jim?" she asks, pulling her shoulder kit around to the front of her body and rummaging inside with her free hand while the other takes preliminary readings with the hand-held scanner. She's still wearing her EVA skins, but has obviously been through basic decon, her hair wet from the cure-all.

"Yeah," he manages, the familiar taste of blood in his mouth; it always makes him feel like he's fifteen years old again with nowhere to go and plenty to do when he gets there. He spits it on the floor. "Just banged up some, I'll be fine."

Spock turns at the sound of Jim's voice. "Doctor Chapel, you will provide me with a full and inclusive list of all injuries sustained by Lieutenant Kirk as a result of this altercation."

"Altercation?" Uhura pipes up, clutching a tearful Hannity to her side, looking fierce. "Looks more like a stay of execution, if you ask me."

"Has the vorld gone crazy?" Chekov wonders, fingers spread. "The enemy is out _dere_ , not in here. At least, that is what they keep telling us."

A general rumble of shocked agreement springs up along the crowded corridor. Facing into the room, Spock swallows heavily and schools his expression before he turns. Only Jim can see how much it costs him to do it. Two breaths later, he's as impassive as ever, any trace of anger or grief wiped away.

"Please disperse," he instructs the gathered crew, almost gently. "There will be a critical incident debriefing available in sickbay at oh nine hundred for those who wish to attend. I do not need to remind you that anything you witnessed may be pertinent to a disciplinary hearing and may not be discussed outside of appropriate channels." Spock straightens imperceptibly. "Do I make myself clear?"

There are scattered nods and unhappy expressions amongst the crew, but they do start to melt away, leaving Spock, Chapel and Jim alone once again. Spock crosses to the door and his eyebrows lift in surprise when he accesses T'Loren's override in the registry.

"That's all I can do for you here," Chapel says, stepping back out of Jim's personal space. "I'm pretty sure it's just contusions and abrasions, but you should stop by sickbay for some bone scans just to be sure. Your hands are a mess. Vulcans are a lot stronger than humans."

He nods, voice hoarse. "I'll do that."

"Jim ..."

"I said I'll drop by."

"Okay, well," Chapel presses her lips together and gives Spock a salute. "Goodnight Commander. Good thing you got here when you did."

"Yeah, about that," Jim says, taking a step after Christine with an apologetic look on his face. "Can you tell Hannity thanks? And I'm sorry?"

"What have you got to be sorry about, Jim?" She sighs then, defeated. "Okay, sure, I'll tell her."

"Thanks."

She gives him an over the shoulder wave and trudges out, weariness etched in every line of her body. It reminds Jim that he's been awake for far too many hours. The rush of adrenaline has just about dissipated and he crosses to the bed on shaky legs.

Spock watches, hidden in the shadows of the doorway. "You are not planning to report to sickbay?"

"I'll get there eventually." He glances up, the swelling around his eye already deflating after whatever Chapel had hypod him with, but the finger-shaped bruises on his throat are only just beginning to blossom. "Hey, maybe you should go yourself."

Momentary confusion flickers across Spock's face, but then he raises fingers to his lips and presses. They come away green. Another expression dawns in his eyes and he drops his hand, the bloodstained fingers balled into a fist. It's strange, because Jim is almost certain T'Loren didn't land so much as a single punch on him. He only gets it when Spock stalks out without another word.

He's not one to judge. It probably would have taken more than biting his own lip to keep from knocking T'Loren's head off for comments about his mother, had roles been reversed.

  
-:-

"So," says Pike. "I hear things didn't go as planned."

"I have been forced to incarcerate Lieutenant Commander T'Loren," Spock admits. "Lieutenant Kirk required minor medical attention only."

"Is this a storm in a teacup, Spock? Has it been blown out of proportion?"

As hopeful as Pike sounds, Spock must shake his head. "No, Admiral."

"Where to from here?" Pike muses, tapping his fingers on his desktop, staring into the distance.

Spock clears his throat with uncharacteristic hesitancy. "If I may ..."

"Please."

"T'Loren is suffering from the aftereffects of a severed bond, something she has successfully concealed from this administration."

"She lost her husband? On Vulcan?"

"It is difficult to explain," Spock says uneasily. "Much is lost in translation, but there is no closer familial relation between Vulcans, no greater intimacy, and by virtue of that fact, no greater loss."

"You're telling me to go easy on her."

Spock tilts his head, a paragon of polite confusion. "I am merely citing extenuating circumstances, not attempting to excuse her behavior."

"Okay, I'll bite. What should I do?"

"Perhaps medical leave on New Vulcan would be appropriate," Spock suggests. "Several of the mind-healers survived the destruction of Vulcan-that-was. They would be best equipped to assist in T'Loren's rehabilitation."

Pike presses his lips together tightly, but his eyes are warm. "You can find it in your heart to suggest that," he points to Spock's face, "after she went after you too?"

Spock's tongue darts out to touch the throbbing in his bottom lip and there's some sort of confession in that which makes Pike sign off without further discussion, but with frank confusion in his eyes.

Spock stands, face blank, and walks into the bathroom. The lights brighten automatically with his presence, banishing the shadows in the corners of the room and throwing his angular reflection into high relief. Standing before the mirror, Spock strips and places his uniform in the cycler. The mirror shows him the vivid line of bruises down one side of his body, the little blue marks left by McCoy's pen delineating the extent of the damage. He stares into his own eyes and does not recognize himself.

Spock has already attended to basic hygiene this morning, but there is very little logic guiding him now.

He steps into the cubicle. His index finger hovers over the controls, then settles on the rarely used option of a real water shower. Set to scalding temperatures, it hits him in the face, gushing into his eyes, forcing inside his mouth to wash away the taste of coppery blood. It almost chokes him, so he bows his head and lets it cascade down his back, follow the lines of his ears down the planes of his chest to fall away into the drain recess. The room quickly fills with steam and the automatic fans kick in, but to Spock, the atmosphere feels as thick and heavy as his shame.

Skin numbed by the drumming water, hands pressed against the wall, he forces himself to acknowledge that there had once been a time when he would have sacrificed anything, anyone, in order to save his mother. His mind races and his stomach churns. T'Loren's accusations ring in his ears; small truths designed to cause pain. He does not want to disown his human mother, even though his half-caste status has defined him his whole life ... but neither can he resist pressing his teeth and tongue against the proof of his own emotionalism. Fresh green blood mixes with the water, but it would take a Vulcan's eyesight to distinguish it.


	12. chapter 3.2

Jim wakes up with a hell of a headache and one look in the mirror has him convinced he really should have gone to sickbay rather than just crashed out on his bunk. He's prodding gingerly at the mess he used to call a face when the door chime sounds.

"Computer, identify guest," he asks, playing things a little cautious, considering his last twenty four hours.

 _Divisional Commanding Officer, Spock._

"Shit," he says, then, "enter." He was kind of hoping to be wearing something other than his blood-stained shirt from the night before.

Spock steps into his quarters, then pauses, unreadable eyes taking in Jim's appearance. "I have chosen an inappropriate time for this discussion."

"No, it's okay."

"If you could please inform me of a more suitable ..."

"Just give me a minute, I'll be right with you," Jim insists, because really, you don't leave the guy who saved you from an ass kicking waiting.

He slips into the bathroom and strips, setting the sonics on high and ignoring the way they pelt his bruises. With a quick swipe at his hair he's dressed again and back in the main room, perhaps barefoot and in need of a shave, but definitely cleaner.

"There was no need for ..."

"Hey, thanks for last night," Jim interrupts. "Maybe I should have called Security straight off, but I was kind of hoping it wasn't as bad as Hannity seemed to think."

Spock raises an eyebrow. "Lieutenant Hannity alerted you to T'Loren's intent and you failed to call Security?"

"I really had no idea about her intent." He runs a hand through his hair and pads awkwardly over to the replicator. "Do you want a drink or something?"

"I ... no," Spock seems confused. "Thank you."

"Coffee," Jim says to the wall. "Black, hot." He turns to Spock while the replicator thinks about that. It's an older unit and not as quick as it could be. "Have you come to take my statement?"

"No." He is still frowning. "I have come to discuss the terms of your ongoing employment."

"Oh," Jim raises the cup to his lips and takes a too large swallow to cover his discomfort. He hadn't planned to be having this discussion so soon, and preferably not with Spock at all.

The Commander tucks his hands into the small of his back and walks over to the far corner of the room. He appears to be studying the one photo Jim has of his brother Sam. "This is your family?"

"Part of it," Jim agrees, feeling unbalanced by the sudden redirect. It is unlike Vulcans to be circular.

"You have additional family?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim sort of hides behind the coffee cup as he admits it. Spock has to know this stuff already, has to have seen his personnel file. "There's my mother, Winona."

"You speak to them often?"

"I ... look," Jim sets the mug down and it's his turn to frown, "not that I mind, but what's with the twenty questions? Aren't we going to talk about my resignation?"

"If that is what you wish to discuss, then by all means," Spock says easily.

"I'm, well, I'm quitting."

"So I was informed."

Jim opens his mouth but nothing comes out. This is really not what he expected.

Spock turns to face him again, same calm non-expression on his face, same carefully attentive pose. "May I enquire as to your reasons?"

"I ..." as Jim draws breath he realizes pretty much everything on his list is defunct now that T'Loren is unlikely to command a medevac shuttle again. From the look on Spock's face, he's counting on that. Jim sinks down onto the edge of his bed, coffee forgotten on the table and buries his head in his hands. "I've got no grounds for early resignation now," he sighs. "You guys can screw me to the wall if I try to leave."

Spock stands quietly. "I have no wish to keep you in the service against your will. If you would still prefer to leave, I will personally approve your early discharge." His dark eyes lock with Jim's surprised ones. "No demerits appended."

"Why?" It's all Jim can manage, all he can think.

"I would find it beneficial if you remained," Spock says, conversationally ignoring him to study his photo montage of Iowa, "with me, as my Point One."

Jim just watches him, not daring to move, feeling his heart thunder against his ribs and not knowing whether it's anger or excitement. Three months ago he would have leapt at the chance, thinking it would solve all his problems, but now ... now he's weary and it's bone deep. He's got a collection of scars that remind him constantly of the cost of what they do out here. The very gap he's being offered is there because Ashe's been struck down, and God knows if she'll ever be quite right again.

He's on the verge of turning it down, but then he looks at Spock, really looks at him. The hard overhead lighting isn't kind to him, delineating the the worry lines a man with so little expression shouldn't even have, and hollowing out his cheeks so that his exhaustion is self evident. It does nothing to hide the green scab on his lower lip. To have lost so much, and still do this job. Jim can't back down from that, he's already decided, he knows he has.

"You've got a deal, Commander."

Spock doesn't smile, but something tightly coiled seems to ease inside him, something only Jim can see.

  
-:-

  
Jim has the choice of trying to sleep during his erstwhile 'day' or staying awake for twenty four hours to get on Alpha time. It's no surprise to anyone which option he chooses. About eighteen hours in, Scotty informs him there will be no more card games in case Jim gets strangled, so he decides some exercise might keep him awake.

He selects a cubicle and a running machine on autopilot, not sparing a glance for who else might be around at this strange hour. It's only once he's a good two clicks into his own program that he glances to the left and sees Spock several spaces over. The Vulcan is running in full uniform, including a visor, and the amber light on the outside of his cubicle indicates conditions inside are not ship normal. Jim would put money on it being rather hot in there, and probably higher-g, too.

Spock is running on Vulcan.

Jim watches for a while, unconsciously matching the pace and feeling his heart scramble to keep up. Spock's long legs eat up the constantly revolving track, his rhythm faultless, like clockwork. It looks effortless, but Jim can see his chest heaving and wonders if he's even thinned the atmosphere to match. Perfectionist that he is, it's likely.

Never one to pass up on a challenge, even one that hasn't been issued, Jim continues running long after his own program has finished. He runs past the point where his vision blurs and he starts to cramp, beyond where the computer issues him with mandatory hypo of electrolytes and further than he's ever run before. By the time Spock steps off the track, Jim feels like he's going to die. Slowly. In small, painful increments.

Jim's legs feel like jelly and he has his t-shirt tucked into the waistband of his shorts, stripped off long ago. He's drenched in sweat, but his double day is nearly over and after that workout, who wouldn't sleep like a baby?

Spock notices him well before the door to the showers, pausing with a question written in his eyebrows. "You do not customarily take exercise at this hour."

"No," Jim pants. "Usually I'm asleep at this hour."

"A valid point."

They cross to the lockers and Jim lifts one leaden leg onto the bench and stoops to undo his shoes. "You always run that far?"

"Provided I have adequate time at my disposal, yes."

Jim tugs off his other shoe and tosses his shirt and shorts into the cycler. He turns just in time to catch a glimpse of Spock's naked form as he slips into one of the showers. Green-flushed skin over lean, flat planes of muscle. Jim studies the t-shirt in his hands.

  
-:-

  
He wakes the next morning to his first day on Alpha shift, his first day as Divisional Point One. It hadn't really sunk in the night before, but Spock has promoted him as well as stopped him from quitting. The warm languor that comes from deep sleep is banished by the tight knot in his stomach. He's not ready for this.

He shaves carefully, screwing his face up in the mirror to get every last little bit. The slide of the razor against his skin is comforting. It's an old fashioned way to do it; yet another example of his attachment to the anachronistic. Truthfully, part of the appeal is that it gives him a little longer to come to grips with the day. The rest of it is the pride he takes in skill acquired over time. He very rarely nicks himself. Of course, it's easier when your face isn't full of unfamiliar contours. He presses his tongue against the inside of his swollen lip and watches as a drop of blood bursts through and trails down his chin. His face in the mirror is pale and although he weighs the same as when he signed on, it's differently distributed, making him look older and younger at the same time.

Jim wipes his face clean and dabs at his lip with the coagulant salve Chapel sent him via internal mail, smears a bit on the cut over his eyebrow for good measure. He draws the line at swallowing the anti-contusional to combat the bruising. That shit just fades in time anyway. He's programmed the replicator to have a hot cup of bitter coffee waiting for him at precisely oh six fifty. He picks it up along with his PADD and the door swishes obediently out of his way as he joins the flow of traffic towards the briefing rooms.

A hand grabs his elbow, jostling the hot mug against his battered lips and he swears. Hannity's pert face is smiling up at him from where she's attached herself to him like a limpet.

"Hey," she says, then gives him a one armed hug. "Dead man walking."

"Spock rescued me," he says, trying to make a joke out of actual fact.

"I saw," she reminds him. "He was fierce."

She links her arm in his so he transfers the coffee to his other hand. He remembers her tear-streaked face from the corridor and gives her arm a little squeeze against his ribs. Having her in Ops, talking in his ear for six months, had done a lot to break the ice between them. That and the fact that Spock seemed to approve of him. Spock's opinion counts for a lot around here. Jim kind of thinks of Annie as the little sister he never had. Not that he'd say that to her face. He's seen her sparring with Uhura in the gym; she held her own and Uhura's no delicate flower.

"I hear you got promoted." It's no surprise she knows. Ops know everything.

"I'm going to miss your sign off," he tells her, glancing down again just in time to catch her bitter smile.

"Welcome home, fly boy," she says, one last time.

They sit together in the briefing. He slouches so that his knee rests against hers and she pulls a face at him. Uhura gives him a surreptitious thumbs up, which is reassuring, because it seems McCoy isn't talking to him. His one effort at good morning is met with eyebrows of doom and a swift hypo of the anti-contusional he didn't swallow. McCoy can read his freaking mind, or something.

Jim feels the hush fall over the room before Spock even draws level with the podium. A new record. News of the rumble in Jim's quarters is all over the ship, you just can't keep that kind of thing quiet. It's highly likely that everyone knows more than he does about what's going to happen to T'Loren, whether they've been diverted to Luna for a hearing or whether they're back en route to Robicon IV again. The back alley information channels on this ship are unbelievable.

Spock faces them all with his customary equanimity. "Good morning and good evening," he says, then continues, clearly not expecting a response. "As you are no doubt all aware, Lieutenant Commander T'Loren has been relieved of duty for an indeterminate amount of time. No visitors are permitted, as per T'Loren's request. I ask that you respect her wishes and refrain from attempting to send comm messages or attempting to visit in person. This is a delicate matter." His eyes roam the room sternly. "And one I take most seriously."

Jim doesn't look, but he knows a significant number of people are gauging his reaction. He keeps his eyes on Spock, the picture of relaxed attentiveness, certain he'd do a Vulcan proud.

"In the interests of addressing more general matters, the _Stalwart_ is back on course for Robicon IV." It's a testament to the respect everyone has for Spock that nobody groans. "You will no doubt be pleased to hear that our stay will be short in duration."

There are a few mutters of surprise at that. Jim allows himself a pout of consideration. He and Spock haven't spoken about this since before they were called away from the diplomatic debacle. To his credit, Spock doesn't even glance in his direction.

"Negotiations with the Robii have been terminated."

A susuruss of shock whirls around the briefing room. Nobody's expected the Federation Council to walk away from a peaceful population located directly in the path that Nero seems to be forging towards Earth and the other central worlds.

"If I can have your full attention," Spock says, less of a demand and more of a reminder. The room falls silent again. "This turn of events is by no means an ideal outcome, and I would ask every one of you to ensure that no hint of this reaches the Robii population." Spock does an admirable job of looking uncomfortable about lying, which is probably because he _is_ uncomfortable about lying, just not in the way people are thinking. "It is not our place to dictate Federation policy, merely to assist where we can. Our primary duty is to those we can save, and it appears that the current political stalemate is insurmountable. I ask you to respect the Council's decision."

Beside him, Hannity looks thunderstruck. "But, how can we ..."

"Shh," Jim whispers, as Spock starts talking again.

"I am aware that this places many of you under significant ethical and moral compromise. Any person who feels unable to complete their scheduled duties due to conscientious objection should forward their temporary suspension of duty to myself or Captain Taylor."

"Then the Captain's aware of this?" comes an unknown male voice.

Spock's head turns slightly, giving the man a blank stare. "Very much so, Lieutenant Commander."

"And he sees no problem with leaving billions of people to die?"

"It is not the Captain's decision."

"But, sir ..."

"You have your orders," Spock says coldly. Then and only then, his eyes flick to Jim. "We all have our orders."

There is a general shifting in seats. Spock glances down at the podium, holds the pose for a few seconds. Jim thinks it's a nice touch.

"In light of the recent alterations to the chain of command, I would advise all of you to access the Core database to ensure that your rosters are unaffected. I have endeavoured to notify any personnel immediately affected, but it is your responsibility to cross-check your ongoing allocations for further changes. Lieutenant Kirk has been promoted to Divisional Point One and Lieutenant Hannity will take his place as Point Two in ED996's Beta team."

Beside him, Hannity flinches. Not old news, then, that bit.

Spock picks her out of the crowd easily. "I regret I was unable to inform you privately, Lieutenant. Congratulations."

Hannity nods vehemently, clearly bereft of speech at this point.

"If there are no other questions?"

"I have one," Jim calls out, raising his hand although Spock could hardly mistake him for anyone else, with that Vulcan hearing of his.

"Lieutenant Kirk?"

"If we're pulling out of Robicon, why are we going back there at all?"

Spock's eyes duck away and then back again. Jim wonders if he's just seen a Vulcan concoct a lie. "The Starfleet Diplomatic Corps have requested one final audience with the Robicon Administration. Admiral Pike has approved."

Jim nods, because it kind of makes sense that the diplomats would want one final crack at it before running away in defeat. Spock's obviously thought this through. Then again, he might be telling the truth. They are, after all, lying to the Diplomatic Corps as well.

  
-:-

  
"I am uncomfortable with misleading the crew," Spock says without preamble, falling into stride with him in the corridor.

"The greater good, and all," Jim reminds him flippantly, then notices the real signs of strain on Spock's face and stops him with a hand on his arm. "Hey, they're going to forgive you, if they ever find out. Do you think they'd rather you played it by the book and the Robii just disappeared in a puff one day?"

Spock watches him carefully, a little of the confusion in his eyes subsiding. "No, of course not."

"Then quit beating yourself up about it," he advises. "We're doing what we have to do, end of story."

Spock straightens and pulls his arm away, seeming to realize how emotionally laden their exchange has been. "It is advisable to discuss our strategy."

"Absolutely, I ..."

 _Amber Alert. Amber alert. All personnel report to relevant duty stations. Repeat, Amber Alert._

Jim and Spock share a look then set off briskly in the direction of the change rooms.

  
-:-

  
Jim leaves the shoulder and neck clasps of his EVA suit undone. The damn thing has never given up trying to strangle him for all it's purported flexibility. When he's got the hood and the visor on, it's fine, but when they're all just loitering around the shuttles waiting for Spock to stand them down or step them up, it's damned annoying. Turns out it manages to strangle him anyway, but only because McCoy hooks a finger into it and drags him around the back of the shuttle with a look like thunder on his face.

"Resignation?" he whispers intensely. "Are you _serious?_ "

"Um, I was?"

"I thought we had a plan," McCoy frowns. "I though we were on the same page."

"Bones, we weren't even reading the same book."

"I had your back, you idiot. If you'd only given me a few more days I could have had everything worked out. I had a plan, God dammit!"

"I had to do something," Jim counters, hands out in a pleading gesture.

"Oh yeah, and look how well that turned out," McCoy presses his index finger into the nasty bruise surrounding Jim's eye.

"Holy shit, ow!"

"Serves you right."

"That's my freaking eye!"

McCoy pats his face with an open palm, earning him another muttered curse. "Don't be such a baby, and visit Ashe, for crying out loud. She's hurt, she's not got leprosy."

"I don't know what to say to her," he confesses. "I just know I'm going to say something stupid and insensitive."

"She should be used to that by now."

"Oh, nice."

"Go on, get," McCoy turns him by the shoulders and gives him a shove. "I've got to cross check the drugs with Christine before we fly."

When Jim stumbles back into view, courtesy of the doctor's added momentum, Uhura has finished her pre-flight and is sitting with her legs dangling off the starboard runner, drinking a cup of dark red tea one of the maintenance techs fetched for her.

"She's got a thing for me," she explains.

"Oh that's sweet. What do I need to do to get a secret admirer?"

She takes a sip of her tea and gives him her best older sister routine. "You could start by being less of a horse's ass," she tells him. "That might help."

Jim leans against Nix's pitted hull. "What have I ever done?" he complains. "Seriously, I haven't slept with your best friend, I haven't slept with _you_ , I don't touch you inappropriately ..."

"Jim, you touch _everyone_ inappropriately," she objects.

"Is that it?" he exclaims as if in revelation. "You're feeling left out and you _want_ me to grab your ass?"

"Lieutenant Kirk?"

Jim freezes at the sound of Spock's voice from over his shoulder. Uhura giggles in a particularly immature way, Jim feels.

"Sir?"

"I am canceling the Amber Alert. We will, however require one shuttle to investigate this distress call. We are currently warping to the co-ordinates supplied by the science vessel _Tat'sar_ , where Nix Alpha will deploy alone to take an inventory of potential external warp drive damage."

His embarrassment abruptly overridden by curiosity, Jim pushes off from the hull. " _Tat'sar_. Is that a Romulan name?"

"It's Vulcan," Uhura contributes. "You can tell by the vowel sounds."

Jim gives her a look. "Not all of us were communications majors, Lieutenant."

"Some of us were sober enough to remember Core Federation Languages 101, _Lieutenant_ ," she snipes back.

Spock's eyes shift back and forth between them, and that alone is enough to shut them up. "Power up," he commands. "ETA five minutes."

"Aye sir," they chorus, and McCoy snaps off a salute that can only be described as facetious, if anyone cared to analyze it.

  
-:-

  
"Wow," Jim enthuses, leaning into his harness to take in the sleek lines of the Vulcan ship. "That is one hot ship."

"According to the Vulcan High Council database, the _Tat'sar_ was one of the last ships commissioned by the Vulcan Science Academy before its destruction," Spock comments, sounding a little distracted as his eyes drink in the sight of something created on a world that no longer exists. "It has warp ten capability, superior maneuverability and over fifty dedicated science labs with access to computing power never before seen on a starship."

"I should have expected the only thing that'd give you a hard on would be an inanimate object," McCoy drawls from his bench seat.

Jim hides his smile behind a fake itch on the end of his nose.

"Lieutenant Uhura, please take an aft approach vector to facilitate external examination of the warp nacelles," Spock instructs, ignoring the doctor entirely.

"Aye, sir."

They vector about just as the suit comms stutter to life and Jim is introduced to his new Ops tech via earbuds.

 _Good morning class,_ the perky voice chirps. _It's a fine day out in space today, the dust cloud located in your y minus ten z negative twenty degrees shouldn't occlude the fine view of this sexy piece of Vulcan engineering. You can expect the usual gravitation effect from idling warp drives to be magnified by the planetary well in ship's plane minus twenty four degrees, but this far out from that moon it shouldn't give you any grief. Solar radiation at one hundred and thirty three thousand lux, so I hope you brought your sunscreen and all visors should be polarized. Current estimated time to rendezvous on your current trajectory is two point six three minutes._

When Spock just sends the requisite click of acknowledgment over his comm, Jim takes matters into his own hands and depresses his own collar tab. "Thanks for that Nix Ops, I'll be sure to snap you a picture, it's beautiful out here, over."

 _Oh hey, Boy Wonder. I heard you were starting today. Don't you dare scratch the paintwork on that lovely Suurok class lady, she's one of a kind._

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jim smiles, finding relief in the easy banter and obvious competence of the new voice in his ear. It had been hard enough knowing it wouldn't be Hannity telling him when to haul ass out of a tight spot, but knowing that Ops had undergone a shakeup when she was promoted meant that many crews had entirely new Ops people. There was always an adjustment period where Points and Pilots learned to trust their Ops and vice-versa.

"Commander," Uhura interrupts, turning in her seat to look at them, confusion plain to see. "We're being ordered to stand down and return to the _Stalwart_."

Spock frowns. "Ops, please confirm."

 _It's not an internal message,_ the perky voice sounds preoccupied now. _Uhura, what's the point of origin?_

They're saved a reply when the shuttle's tiny viewscreen comes to life and a solemn Vulcan face appears. "You will break off your approach and return to your vessel."

One of Spock's eyebrows quirks. "Have you not requested aid from the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service?"

"We have," the stern Vulcan replies. "However, we have not authorized any extra vehicular examination of our ship."

"It is standard procedure. You were informed of this in our initial acceptance receipt."

"Your current activity is not sanctioned."

Spock blinks once. "Very well."

The screen goes dead and there's an uncomfortable silence.

Uhura twists in her seat again. "Orders, sir?"

"Return to the ship," Spock says tightly. "Best speed."


	13. chapter 3.3

The main transporter room of an EPAS Constellation class starship is usually a retrofitted storage hanger. The simple, economical six to ten person unit that suffices for most Starfleet ships simply won't do on a ship that has to deal with large scale influxes of people over short spaces of time. _Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, EPAS are here to rescue you, please form an orderly line for the transporter..._ No, Jim's pretty sure that wouldn't work.

Usually, being in the main transporter room doesn't bother him. He'd started pulling some cross specialization time on Beta with Christine Chapel, because what Point can't use advanced medical training, really? So, he spent quite a bit of his crossover time in this vaulted room, lending his hands and doubling in triage while Nix Alpha flew lead point. It had been helpful, in a way, to be so busy during his downtime.

Today is different, because there's no dire emergency, no bustle, no medics and doctors flitting about between stretchers and the walking wounded. Instead, he's meeting Spock here after their abortive EVA mission to assist the _Tat-sar_ , freshly changed out of his field blacks and just as confused as he was half an hour ago.

Alpha Ops techs had received a tight band communication from the Vulcan science vessel after Nix had been sent packing. Apparently, they had been conducting a long-range scanning mission of residual gravitational disturbance in the regions of space recently frequented by Nero's fleet. Still on orders from EPAS headquarters on Luna, the _Stalwart_ had been instructed to evacuate the entire crew complement of twenty two scientists and research aides to _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ , New Vulcan. It was more of a diplomatic mission than a true evacuation, but the Minister for Health had quickly bowed to Council pressure and acceded to the request from the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth. Given what the Vulcan people had endured, playing taxi seemed a small favor indeed.

Still, as Jim takes his place at Spock's left shoulder, his presence required as Point One to the Divisional Commanding Officer, he has his own doubts. If the crew of that vessel wanted help so much, why didn't they want anyone looking at their warp drive?

He tries to tell himself that standing there, just the two of them and a solitary engineer, is what feels wrong. He's never seen the transporter room so empty before. The rows and rows of pads seem ominously dark and incredibly numerous. Jim knows there are only one hundred and twenty pads, but the unnatural quiet and Spock's characteristic stillness conspire to make him feel like they are waiting for an army to materialize, rather than a couple of dozen peaceful Vulcan scientists.

"Lieutenant," Spock says by way of greeting, seemingly undisturbed.

Jim glances sideways, mirroring Spock's handclasp in the small of his back. Spock might sound normal but his hands are gripping one another so tightly that the knuckles blanch slightly green. His utter stillness speaks of iron control. Jim can't help but turn slightly, enough to catch Spock's attention. "You all right with this?"

Spock's eyebrow rises slowly. "To what are you referring?"

"You seem a little ..." Jim searches for the right word, then gives up and goes for the direct approach, "freaked out?"

The other eyebrow joins the first. "I assure you, I am no such thing."

"Okay, sure," Jim turns obediently front and center again. "Just saying."

After a beat, Spock shifts slightly beside him. "Are you planning to finish that sentence?"

Jim gives him a confused look. "I did."

Spock blinks once, a very deliberate gesture. "You are a most frustrating human."

Jim is saved from responding to that by the gradually building hum of the transporter. Both men turn back to watch as twenty-two tall, robed figures begin to coalesce from within the swirling silver sparks. If possible, Spock stands even straighter beside him.

The light clears and the most central Vulcan steps forward. He's the same one from the shuttle transmission, appearing middle aged by human standards, which Jim estimates would make him at least one hundred years old for a Vulcan. He raises his right hand in the _ta'al_ which both EPAS men return with ease.

" _Mene sakkhet ur-seveh,_ " the senior scientist intones in traditional greeting.

" _Sochya eh dif,_ " Spock replies, sounding entirely different speaking his native tongue.

Jim remains quiet, but allows his hand to fall with the others. His Vulcan is rusty, but it seems unlikely that anyone will start speaking Standard, given nobody has so much as looked his way thus far.

" _Senekot wimish, du Spohkh cha'Sarek wimish, ha,_ " the strange Vulcan says.

" _Ha, Spohkh wimish. Na'shaya, Senekot ang'jmizn._ "

Jim's followed this so far; basic introductions. Spock designated Senekot the Starfleet equivalent of a Captain, so when the distinguished looking Vulcan glances his way for the first time, Jim figures he better snap off a salute.

Spock inclines his head, catching Senekot's attention. "This is Lieutenant James Kirk, my Point One."

"Lieutenant," Senekot acknowledges, his Standard heavily accented, then turns back to Spock. "We thank you for your assistance."

"No thanks are necessary," Spock replies.

"No," Senekot acknowledges. "However, you have spent much time amongst humans. I do not wish to offend."

"I am Vulcan," Spock says simply, not missing a beat.

Senekot's eyes travel up and down Spock's lean form and Jim finds himself doing the same. Spock is thinner than any of the other Vulcans, his skin paler from the lack of ultraviolet exposure. His hair, ruthlessly cropped as a countermeasure to unexpected radiation exposure some weeks ago, is only just beginning to grow out, far shorter than the glossy, orderly caps that adorn the other Vulcans in the room. He stands before their robed personages in plain, unpresuming EPAS blacks, only the triple glint of his Commander's tabs to set him apart from Jim or the engineering tech manning the transporter.

Senekot says nothing, merely turns away to beckon to the other members of his crew. Jim feels his face flood with heat. Spock has just failed an inspection of some kind, he's certain of it. While Senekot enters into a brief exchange with two other science officers, Jim can feel Spock's eyes on him, no doubt cataloguing his very human reaction. Jim forces himself to breath deeply, and pretty much has the flush under control by the time Senekot turns back to them.

"You have made arrangements for our ship to be towed."

"I have," Spock confirms. "If you are ready, I can show you to your quarters."

"That is acceptable."

"I regret that we have not been able to secure private lodgings for all of your crew. The _USS Stalwart_ is designed to house large numbers of guests for short periods, not small numbers for long periods."

"No explanation is necessary. We are Vulcan," Senekot gives him a hard stare. "We require little in the way of luxuries."

Jim doesn't miss the way the muscles in Spock's jaw clench before he speaks. "You will inform me if you find anything lacking."

"Of course."

"This way." Spock sweeps out of the room, back ramrod straight, his long stride eating up the floor like he's got an emergency to get to.

This leaves Jim to follow up the rear. He does so with a strange heaviness in his chest, not having managed to banish the hot blood from his face. He's missing something here, and it irks him not to know what it is.

For practicality's sake, the emergency accommodation is located on the same level as the main transporter. It wouldn't make sense to beam a hundred aboard and then clog up the turbolifts distributing them to other decks. This means that pretty soon, Spock is giving a demonstration on how the individual door locks can be programmed and the crew of the _Tat'sar_ are peeling off in fours and fives to acclimate themselves to their temporary quarters.

Senekot pauses in the door to the dormitory he will be sharing with two of his most senior crew. "Spock, your father has asked me to convey a greeting on his behalf."

"It is most considerate of you to do so," Spock says, without a trace of surprise or pleasure.

"I am merely discharging my duty to a respected member of the Vulcan Council."

Even Spock falters at that, because it's hard to interpret that in a good way. "Given the necessity of our presence at the fourth planet of the Robicon system, I estimate our the earliest potential arrival at _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ to be in three standard days time."

"I understand." Senekot nods and disappears into his quarters.

Spock stands motionless, hands by his sides.

"Why do I get the feeling he doesn't like you?" Jim says through his teeth.

"I doubt Senekot will devote any energy towards forming a personal opinion of me," Spock informs him flatly. "Given the length of time we shall spend aboard the same ship, it would constitute a waste of energy." The Commander's eyes remain glued to the closed door in front of him.

Feeling more and more offended on Spock's behalf, Jim plants his hands on his hips. "That makes me feel so much better."

Spock glances at him, the strange blankness in his eyes marred by flickers of something more familiar. "You are being sarcastic."

"Full points to you," Jim forces a grimace. "How did you guess?"

"Vulcans do not guess."

"You do," Jim counters, knowing it's true.

"Perhaps," Spock allows, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "However, as Senekot seems to think it necessary to remind me; I am not entirely Vulcan."

Everything clicks into place in Jim's head and the forced smile fades from his face. "Is that what all that was about?"

"I presume so." Spock commences walking slowly back in the direction they'd come. "Unless my own preconceptions are informing my judgement."

"Yeah, 'cos you're prone to jumping the gun," Jim scoffs.

Spock glances at him, then away again, and that's something of a confession. Jim feels his forehead pucker with surprise. He's not quite sure how to feel about the fact Spock has all but confessed to moments of emotional compromise. Spock seems unsettled also, choosing to confine his hands behind his back again, a sure fire indicator that he's doing his best to be as Vulcan as possible.

They walk in silence for a time while Jim ponders Senekot's strange dislike of Spock, and the vagaries of a universe that would throw the _Tat'sar's_ standoffish crew into the hands of the only Vulcan DivCO in EPAS.

"You know," Jim says, tossing it out there like he's thinking aloud. "Prejudice seems a bit illogical for a Vulcan."

Spock pauses at the junction that will take him to the senior staff meeting. Jim has an appointment with McCoy in the opposite direction. Their eyes meet and hold. Jim reaches out, rests his hand on the wall just beside Spock's shoulder, not touching, but just brushing up against the Commander's personal space.

Those upswept brows do not so much as flicker when Spock replies, "Vulcans are not immune to illogical behavior."

"Just remember, they're only here for three days," Jim offers up conspiratorially.

"I am unlikely to forget."

Jim laughs through his nose and lets his hand fall. They both turn away in unison, each step increasing the distance between them. Not really knowing why, Jim pauses and turns. Spock is clearly delineated in the overhead lights. Each step creases his uniform, pulling the black fabric tight against a knee here, a hip there, a shoulder as his arm swings. His observations from the transporter room come flooding back.

"Commander!"

Spock stops abruptly and turns. Even from that distance, Jim can see the question written in his eyebrows, reaching nowhere near his painfully short hair. He realises that Spock is waiting for an explanation.

"Can I see you later today?"

"Eighteen hundred hours," Spock confirms. "My quarters."

"We should finalize our plans for Robicon."

Spock turns and resumes his steady progress, his lack of disagreement the only acknowledgment Jim's going to get. The gentle curve of the ship's hull takes him gradually out of sight.

  
-:-

  
Jim buckles down and uses his lunch break to visit Ashe in the physiotherapy and rehabilitation suite. She's refused to disembark at the closest Starbase, preferring instead to remain aboard until they're closer to Gant's World, renowned in this part of the galaxy for its regenerative hot springs and skilled neural pathway stimulation technicians. Truthfully, Jim feels like a bit of an asshole for not visiting her earlier, but if it's hard for him, seeing her like this, he can only imagine what it's like from her perspective. Besides, he's been kind of busy having his face beaten in by a traumatized Vulcan.

"Hey there," she says when she sees him.

"Hey yourself," he counters, pulling up an uncomfortable plastic chair and leaning his elbows on her bed. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, you know," she plucks at the covers self-consciously. "Well, you don't know 'cos you're not the one pissing into a bag right now."

"No," Jim swallows uncomfortably. "I'm not. Jesus, Ashe ..."

"Don't," she snaps, shaking her head. "Really, I'm not going to cope if you do the sympathy thing, so don't even."

He nods. "Okay."

She lets her head fall back to hit the pillows. Even with the dark circles under her eyes and the strip McCoy had to shave for the neurosurgery, Jim still thinks she's beautiful. He wants to tell her that, but he's not sure if it'll make things better or worse, so he shifts in his seat and offers up a goofy smile.

"I hear you're the new me," she jokes wanly, full lips twisted in mockery.

"Yeah, tell me, is the regulation skirt length really this short?"

Ashe lets loose one bark of harsh laughter and then her eyes are swimming in tears. "Shit," she sighs, "it's not like I couldn't have seen this coming."

"Nobody ever sees it coming," he pauses to catch her eye and make sure she understands. "You don't. Not when it's you or someone close to you. I mean, in this job we see death and destruction on a daily basis, but it doesn't really touch us. Maybe it's something we do, psychologically, to remain functional, I don't know, but it insulates us from the reality of the situation, from the risks we take. Truth is," he licks his lips, "I think you do this job long enough you're going to get messed up, one way or another."

Ashe reaches out with one wavering hand and manages to press it against the side of his face, her smile more genuine despite fresh tears. "Not only a pretty face."

He covers her hand with his own. "Well, not only."

They sit like that for a while, undisturbed by either McCoy or the Alpha nurses. There's a lot Jim wants to say, a lot he wishes he'd done differently, but Ashe's never wanted that kind of thing from him, never wanted any permanence. Offering something now would only be insulting or patronizing, something she won't tolerate, and he doesn't want to push her away.

"Anything I can do for you?" he asks, because it's probably the only thing he can get away with.

She nods, jerky and uncoordinated. One corner of her mouth is lopsided. "Take care of Spock for me," she whispers. "Don't let him blame himself for what happened."

  
-:-

  
"Ashe says hi," Jim says as he shrugs out of his jacket. Spock's quarters are several degrees hotter than anywhere else in the ship.

The Commander stops, one hand poised above the replicator. "You have spoken to Lieutenant Ho?"

"Yeah, this afternoon. I thought I'd stop in and see how she was getting on."

Spock turns slowly back to the wall unit and punches in his selection. "I have yet to do so."

"You should," Jim counsels. "I think she'd really like that."

Spock looks at him again, and there's something in his face that suggests he thinks that's very unlikely, but he says nothing, merely hands Jim a mug of steaming black coffee. Pleasantly surprised, Jim reaches out to take it and their fingers brush.

"So this meeting with the Arch High Deacon of Trade," Jim begins, rolling his eyes a little at the title as they sit on opposite sides of the desk. "Have you decided how you're going to drop the hint?"

Spock arches an eyebrow. "The hint?"

"Well, you can't just come out and say we're leaving."

"No?"

Jim grasps the edge of his chair between his thighs and shuffles it closer. "No. Look, why don't you practice on me?"

Spock gives him a faintly dubious look but sets down his teacup. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he says, "I am unable to guarantee our ongoing presence in your solar system, Your Excellency."

"Oh yeah, really intimidating," Jim grins, then seeing Spock's face settle into harder lines, hurries to explain. "You've got to put a little more into it, hook him with a kernel of truth."

"Subterfuge is not a skill cultivated amongst Vulcans."

"Good thing you've got me, then," Jim quips. "Now, try again."

For a moment, Jim has the feeling Spock is going to tell him to get out and take his coffee with him, but the Commander has obviously committed himself wholeheartedly to their unorthodox plan.

"Your Excellency, I regret that this may be our last meeting. I have found our conversations most stimulating. I would be gratified to discover that Star Fleet Command are incorrect and Nero chooses another route to the central worlds that does not entail the destruction of Robicon IV."

Jim grins. "Still a little direct, but you're getting there."

"Perhaps it would be best if you demonstrated the correct technique."

Jim feels the grin spread wider on his face because, yeah, Spock sounds just the tiniest bit pissy. "Don't sweat it, you're just a crap liar," he shrugs. "Some people would say that's a good thing."

"You are most insulting this evening."

"Come on, you can't be good at everything," Jim cajoles good-naturedly, reaching over the desk to slap Spock hard on the shoulder. "Try again."

"No."

Jim throws his head back and laughs, feeling the tight knot of tension in his stomach begin to dissolve. It was hard to see Spock so humiliated that morning and harder still to be with Ashe when she was so broken, no longer that well of indefatigable strength and sass. Spock is watching him with a straight face, but there's warmth in his eyes, the tiniest difference in the angle of his shoulders; he needs this, too.

"Maybe we should start with something a little more up your alley," Jim chuckles, reaching out to pluck at Spock's sleeve. "Come on, let's go for a walk. I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"You have not eaten?"

"Have you?" Jim counters, trying not to let too much hang on Spock's reply in case it gives the game away.

Spock hesitates for the barest of seconds but then pushes to his feet. "I have not."

"Great," says Jim. "We can grab something from the mess and take it to the Observation Lounge for more bullshitting lessons."

They exit Spock's quarters shoulder to shoulder.

"Your choice of adjectives leaves much to be desired," Spock tells him as the door swishes closed.

  
-:-

  
"Okay, okay, hang on," Jim shoves another mouthful of pasta into his mouth. "Let me finish this before you try another one or you're going to kill me, for real."

They're sitting on a low couch near the expansive curve of the Observation Lounge's main window. Scattered groups of other Alpha crews, Ops and internal services staff are present, but most people are eating in the mess or their quarters at this time of day, which gives the illusion of privacy. After several further attempts at subtlety, they'd discovered that Spock's talent for lying lay elsewhere. The new plan was for Jim to lay the groundwork and for Spock to top it off with a bald statement.

Spock allows Jim to swallow before he says, utterly deadpan, "my father was an Andorian spice trader," and Jim manages to choke on air anyway.

The Commander's eyes narrow in concern, but Jim holds up a reassuring hand and just reaches for his glass of water. "Oh man," he sighs after washing his throat clear. "You're hilarious."

"The aim of this exercise is not to provoke hilarity," Spock reminds him, sounding faintly concerned.

"Don't worry, it won't be funny when we're doing it for real."

With a faintly offended air, Spock straightens his relaxed posture to its customary state. "I shall have to assume you are correct."

"Go again," Jim prompts, trying to get him to loosen back up.

"I believe it is your turn."

Jim tilts his head in consideration. "Fair's fair, I guess. Um, let me think," he scratches his free hand through his short blond hair, the plate of pasta balanced precariously on his knee. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock is slightly obsessed with that plate and its history of several near-misses with gravity. "Okay, here's one," Jim clears his throat. "I was once a bartender at a place where the tables were waited by monkeys."

Spock studies his face carefully for any traces of subterfuge. "You are a most consummate liar," he acknowledges.

"Actually, that one was true."

Both of Spock's eyebrows shoot up.

"There's this place near the Academy in San Francisco, do you know it?" Jim dismisses that possibility almost immediately. "No, of course you don't. Anyway, every month they feature a different animal in their wait staff. Of course, the animals have handlers, but the novelty is still there." Jim pouts in recollection, "actually, the monkeys were pretty good. It was the Denebian Slime Devils I have second thoughts about."

Their eyes meet and hold.

"You are lying about the Denebian Slime Devils."

Jim gives him a thoroughly mischievous look. "Believe me, I wish I was."

"The health regulations alone ..."

"Denebian Slime Devils," Jim reiterates firmly, "serving your fries. I shit you not."

Spock's face flickers through a complicated series of micro expressions as he struggles with both the content and the colloquialism.

"Don't try to analyze it," Jim advises, patting him on the knee. "Just eat your pasta, safe in the knowledge that humans are ridiculous."

He leans back against the couch, crossing his legs and rescuing his plate for the fourth time. After a few moments, Spock also allows himself to settle against the cushions, twirling his fork with newly found expertise. They watch the stars streak past at warp speed. Jim sips his water, a feeling of contentment gradually taking hold.

"Lieutenant?"

"We're off duty, call me Jim."

"I have two years, nine months, three weeks, six days and seventeen point four hours of shore leave accrued."

"Hey," Jim crows approvingly, "that was excellent! You're really getting the hang of this!"

"That was not a lie."

"Oh."

"Should we have the opportunity to take shore leave in each other's company, Admiral Pike implied we may wish to develop a confidential means of greeting one another, but I fail to see how this would be an appropriate use of our time."

"Right." Jim looks sideways at him. "Are you planning on taking shore leave?"

"Recent events have necessitated the development of a rotational system for leave across all crew groups aboard the _Stalwart_. I have been persuaded that it is logical for me to participate." Spock stares calmly out into space, devoid of emotion. "There is no compulsion for us to maintain contact during that time."

"What would you do, where would you go?"

Spock's left shoulder gives a minute twitch. "I have not given the matter much thought."

"The colony, maybe? To see your father?" Jim thinks it makes sense. If Spock's telling the truth, he hasn't spent any time with his only remaining family since his planet was destroyed.

"I am unsure of my welcome."

"Oh."

He's so not qualified to be having this conversation, but Spock is actually telling him things and Jim takes a moment to absorb that before his heart rate kicks up a notch. Deliberately, he slouches down a little more in case any of his enthusiasm shows. Somehow, and he's not exactly sure how, this lesson in lying has turned into a sharing of truth, and he's suddenly realized how much he wants to unravel the puzzle of his commanding officer.

He glances at Spock and tightens his fingers around his half empty glass of water. "My father died on the _USS Kelvin_ the day I was born." It's not relevant to their conversation, but it _is_ something he never talks about, so instinctively, it feels like it fits.

Spock is clutching the edges of his plate. "I have a brother, Sybok. We do not speak of him."

"We call my brother Sam, even though his name is George. He married some girl and had a kid, so that makes me an uncle." Spock turns to look at him so he shrugs self-consciously. "Shit, I don't even know how to be a brother, how can I be an uncle?"

"I am the last person you ought to ask."

"Sybok doesn't have any kids?"

"It is possible," Spock concedes. "I have no way of knowing if he is even alive."

"Because of Vulcan?"

"That, and more."

"What did he do, that you guys disowned him?"

Spock gives the tiniest shake of his head. "It was he who disowned us over a ... philosophical disagreement."

Jim huffs out a breath of disbelief. "Must have been one hell of a philosophy."

"Surak's teachings of logic."

"Okay, so I can see how that would cause problems." A little dumbfounded, Jim turns that over and over in his mind, trying to come at it from an angle that makes sense. "Did he have more trouble being Vulcan than you did?"

For a split second, Spock's mouth twitches into a crooked smile. It's gone again so fast that Jim feels dizzy.

"Perhaps," Spock says, and his voice is warm with possibilities. "Although it had not occurred to me to think so."

"It can't be easy." Jim is thinking aloud, almost to himself, toying with the idea of conforming to a life where emotion is perceived as a failing or a weakness. He turns to offer Spock a wide eyed shrug. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do you correspond with your brother?" Spock asks, changing the subject.

"Nah," Jim waves a dismissive hand, "not really. I mean, birthdays and that, but even then it's kind of half-hearted. There's a lot of stuff ..." Throat suddenly constricted, Jim is forced to pause and take a sip of his water. "There's a lot of stuff," he finishes lamely, as though that was all.

"Stuff," Spock echoes, watching him carefully. "I cannot conceive of Vulcan language being so imprecise."

He laughs nervously, tipping back his head to drain his glass. "There has to be a Vulcan equivalent."

"I assure you, there is not."

"Pity, that's a Vulcan word I'd love to know."

"You are quite fluent in Vulcan," Spock tells him, "for a human with little linguistic training."

" _Th'i-oxalra_ ," Jim grins.

"You have the accent of a diplomat. You speak pure Standard Vulcan with none of the regional inflections common to humans taught by other humans." Spock tilts his head. "You received instruction from a Vulcan."

"I did," Jim nods, enjoying this little guessing game. "What about you? Get all your Standard from your mother?"

"No," Spock answers almost distractedly. "Like all other children of diplomats, I was required to take advanced language instruction in several common Federation languages. Jim, who taught you Vulcan?"

"A Vulcan who was _t'kaul'ama_ ," he reveals. "Never did figure out what he did to get himself kicked out of the club, cos he had to be one of the most Vulcan Vulcans I've ever met." Jim warms to the story and the memory. He doesn't usually like discussing this particular stage in his life, but focusing on the language he learned at the time means he can avoid thinking about the rest of it. "Then again, I was just a kid, but it always sort of seemed like I knew what he was feeling."

Jim had almost added, 'like with you,' but stopped himself just in time.

"A Vulcan with insufficient emotional control can be dangerous," Spock frowns. "I trust you were not left unsupervised with this teacher?"

"Well," Jim squirms a little and rubs the back of his neck. "It wasn't exactly an official language course or anything."

"Explain."

"I was working as an apprentice mechanic at the Iowa Ship Yards. I was, oh I don't know," Jim's eyes flick to the ceiling as he searches his memory, "maybe thirteen or fourteen?"

"The legal age of first employment for humans is fifteen."

"Yeah, I lied on my forms," Jim dismisses that concern instantly. "Anyway, I was pretty good at electronics as it happened, so I got promoted under the central systems tech for the main computer banks?" Jim says it like a question and Spock nods his understanding of starship construction. "Right, so I found myself working on the universal translator subprocessor which meant that every time a consultant native speaker came through, I got to meet them." Jim grins at the memory. "I liked Sarek immediately."

It shouldn't be possible that a lack of movement can draw someone's attention, but when Spock freezes that's exactly what happens.

"What?" Jim asks. "What is it?"

"Describe this Vulcan."

"Um," Jim falters under Spock's intense scrutiny. "Old? Like, really, really old, even for a Vulcan? Kind of a fraction shorter than me, but I reckon he would have been taller in his prime. Grey hair, dark eyes, wrinkled as hell, oh I don't know!" He throws up his hands. "An old dude! That was over half my lifetime ago, I can't remember exactly."

Spock relaxes slightly, even if his eyes are still rather intense.

"What the hell was that?" Jim exclaims.

"Sarek is an uncommon name amongst Vulcans," he explains. "It is also the name of my father."

"Really?" Jim realizes he knew this already, from the conversation between Spock and Senekot in the transporter room. It just hadn't stuck because of everything else that was going on. "Wow, what are the odds?"

"Approximately seventy two thousand, six hundred and ninety four to one."

"Right," Jim breathes, letting go of the tension. "They're pretty long odds, no wonder you were freaked out."

"That is the second time today you have accused me of being 'freaked out.'"

"You totally were, don't even try to deny it."

Spock gives him a look.

"Anyway, Sarek taught me more than the routine hellos, goodbyes and thankyous we get in school," he shrugs. "It was fun. A lot of what he taught me was technical jargon, so any time you want to talk about wiring and circuit boards I'm your guy, but at least once a week he'd throw in a verse from Surak, some pre-Reform poetry or make me sit through some damn history lesson or another."

"I find it difficult to believe you enjoyed such instruction."

"I actually did," Jim shrugs. "It was kind of cool to have the old guy take an interest in me, and I had a lot of time on my hands."

No teenager with Jim's background should have had quite that much time to spare, but Spock pointedly doesn't question the circumstances. Instead, he settles back against the couch, picks up his fork again and says, " _za gad vesht kup gla-tor nash veh Chekov ot-lan igen-tukh-vohraun_."

"Mmm," Jim nods, " _ha taurauk!_ "

He's happy to let the conversation slide to Chekov's utterly awesome aerodynamic breaking, especially since Spock wants to talk about it in Vulcan.

 

 


	14. chapter 3.4

"I offer my humble craft for your transportation convenience," Jim says, adding the traditional Robii hand gesture that symbolizes luck and good fortune.

The Arch High Deacon of Trade makes the signal for benevolent charity. "I accept."

It's a rainy day on Robicon IV, which is simply perfect; picture perfect. Jim couldn't have asked for more. The road is muddy, the mood dreary and the Diplomatic Corps suitably demoralized. It's a great day for lying.

Nix and several other crews have drawn atmospheric duty, leaving them planet-bound for the next twelve hours. It's the most boring of the endlessly boring assignments available within the _Stalwart's_ current deployment; the alternatives being security detail or research and development. The fact that the Divisional Commander drew atmosphere on their final day in the sector has raised a few eyebrows, but it is simple enough to pass it off as a parting courtesy to the Robii. Normally, Nix gets out of a lot of atmo duty, simply because it makes sense for Spock to spend as much time in R &D as possible, rather than ferrying dignitaries from place to place. Also, everyone is still in shock over what seems like an abrupt withdrawal from the system. Robicon IV will be only the third planet abandoned by the Federation due to unsuccessful evacuation treaty negotiations. There were a fair few drunken diplomats in the mess over the last twelve hours, consoling each other and crying into their synthahol.

Planetside, Jim offers his arm to the Deacon, who grips it lightly as he ascends Nix's starboard runner. Uhura gives him an eyeroll from the cockpit and Jim has to quickly smother his smile before the Deacon's intern sees it. Awash with the tingling anticipation of being able to put their plan into action, he can't resist offering Spock his arm, too, just for laughs.

The Commander pauses, one foot on the runner, his eyebrow speaking volumes.

Jim steps aside, not the least bit chastised.

Seated opposite each other on the shuttle's benches, Jim and Spock face the Deacon and his rather nervous looking aide. This is the only opportunity they'll have for conversation with someone who has a seat on Robicon IV's council. It is their one chance to plant the seed of doubt that might save a planet full of people.

"Are you okay?" Jim directs his question to the boy clutching the edge of his seat. "Uhura's a really good pilot, you know."

The boy makes a bold and dismissive gesture. "Your Federation would not have assigned her to His Excellency otherwise."

"True," Jim shrugs, "but it's nice to know, all the same, right?"

The boy flicks wide eyes his way. "I suppose."

Such casual conversation is tolerated on Robicon IV amongst lower socio-economic classes, but Spock and the Deacon sit in silence, studying each other. Staring isn't considered rude here, which means Spock is thoroughly in his element. Jim can't think of a single person who can outstare a Vulcan, but he's enjoying watching the Deacon try.

"What are you going to do for transport, once we're gone?" he asks the intern.

"We will return to conventional means," the boy replies, with a chin bob that signifies tolerance of adversity. "The drivers will have to be recalled from the celebrations."

"Celebrations?"

"Yes, of course," the boy looks offended. "Today is the fifty first commemoration of the signing of the Balwinter Treaty."

"What is that," Jim asks, "exactly?"

"The law that prohibits the making of twine with less than four strands and more than seven."

"Right," says Jim, almost like he cares. "Big party, then."

"The festivities are three days in duration."

With just the right amount of regret, Jim sighs. "Sounds like we would have enjoyed it."

The intern gives a brief sign indicating impatience. "Certain Federation dignitaries have been invited, you and your Divisional Commander included."

"Uh yeah," Jim flicks his fingertips, conveying regret, embarrassment and a desire to cease conversing.

The intern gives him an odd look, but is culturally inhibited from questioning an alien who quite clearly outranks him. They spend the rest of the flight in total silence, but Jim doesn't miss the way the Deacon's eyes inappropriately drift away from Spock's face and onto his own, fine lines of tension drawn between those brows. Beside him, he feels Spock draw a particularly large breath and release it very slowly. Yeah, Jim feels the tension, too.

They land without incident, of course, and Jim springs down to assist the Deacon to disembark. The bejeweled hand rests a little more firmly on his arm this time, drawing his attention to the man's face.

"You should inform your Divisional Commander that failure to attend the Balwinter commemoration will result in great offense to the Robii people."

Jim ducks his head in frank subordination. "Your Excellency, no offense can be taken for refusal of an invitation at a time when those invited are too distant to attend with ease."

"Too distant?" The Deacon comes to an abrupt halt and turns to pin Spock with his most outraged stare, the offense significant enough for him to speak directly to highest ranking officer present, image be damned. "The Federation are replacing Prime Division's presence with a lesser Division?"

"No, Your Excellency," Spock says, with all the confidence of a man telling the truth.

"Then explain your inability to attend!"

Spock makes the complex gesture required by the situation with ease. "You place me in an awkward situation."

"My Commander does not wish to prevaricate," Jim explains helpfully, eyes downcast in apology for the untimely comment. "Loyalty to one's superiors takes precedence over all, does it not, Your Excellency?"

The Deacon's eyes narrow. He may be a bigot and a social climber, but he is also an experienced diplomat and the implications are clear. "Can I anticipate any Federation attendance at the Treaty celebrations?"

"It is ... unlikely," Spock replies.

Jim winces inwardly at the hesitation, but perhaps it simply sounds like regret to these people. He silently wills Spock to seal the deal. Ops are in his ear, asking how much longer they're going to be on the return trip. The previously perky voice sounds pissy.

The Robicon Arch High Deacon of Trade draws himself up to his full, rather unimpressive height and glares. "Can I anticipate any Federation presence on our _planet_ in the coming days?"

Spock's eyes almost seek Jim's, but he remains in control of himself and clasps his hands before him in a Robii apology. "No," he says, with all the weight of his natural seriousness to back him up.

The Deacon turns away, snaps something to his intern that the Universal Translator refuses to interpret, and marches off towards the Grand Hall where the Federation Diplomatic Corps and other dignitaries are assembled.

Jim waits until they're a decent distance away before leaning closer to Spock and asking, "do you think they took the bait?"

"After the Arch High Deacon spoke to his intern, the young man suffered a sudden and highly noticeable alteration to his circulation," Spock confides. He turns to Jim, lips flexed in something that was very close to being an expression of satisfaction. "I believe the human expression is 'hook, line and sinker.'"

"You lied your ass off!" Jim slaps him on the shoulder.

-:-

Jim tries to hide his smile from McCoy as he leaps down from the shuttle. He's filled with the adrenaline rush of hope. Only he, Spock and Taylor know the truth of the situation, and it fills him with nervous energy. It's too early in the day, but he longs to go a few rounds with security in the gym. He needs to _do_ something, and it needs to totally distract him, because it's times like these he feels like doing something really self destructive just to take the edge off. He rolls his neck and tries to shake it out.

"You don't feel bad about leaving these guys to get walloped by Nero?" the doctor demands, looking like thunder.

Jim shrugs and mutes his smile further. "What can you do? We offered, they refused."

"Offer harder!"

"Bones, there are seventy two other populated worlds lying between Robicon and the Central Planets, just how long do you want us to spend on this one?"

"As long as it takes!" McCoy is in fine fettle now. "Jesus, Jim, I thought I knew you!"

That hurts a little, and yeah, if he hadn't known what was really going on, he probably would have been more cut up about the whole thing, but even so, working EPAS has made him frighteningly pragmatic. He comes face to face every day with the save he can't make, the odds he can't beat. If this hadn't been a ploy, Robicon would just be the same thing on a larger scale. It doesn't sit well with him and he sure as hell doesn't like it, but it's the reality he lives with.

Shaken from his own thoughts, Jim looks up, sees the intensity on his friend's face and realizes that McCoy never gives up, never even glances at the odds. It's what makes him such a brilliant doctor.

"Never change," he says sternly, gripping the older man by the shoulder, and probably harder than he means to. "Don't you dare change."

"Lieutenant."

Spock's voice makes Jim drop his hand and turn. "Sir?"

"Walk with me."

With a shrug in McCoy's direction he hopes looks innocent enough, Jim falls into step with Spock.

"The next stage of your plan has been implemented," Spock says in an undertone. "I have personally populated our astrogation database with false entries to indicate our intent to leave the Robicon system in under twenty four hours. Ops and Navigation staff of the current shift are already plotting them." His dark eyes flick to Jim's then away again. "Captain Taylor is aware of the falsification, although I am unsure whether that mitigates the regulation punishment for making false entries in the logs."

"Relax," Jim soothes, catching the very edge of Spock's sleeve between two knuckles and giving it a tug. "This is going to work. You'll see."

They round the corner into sickbay for their routine post-deployment scans and are forced to come to an abrupt halt. The huge space is filled to the brim with milling EPAS personnel, all in uniform, all looking very unimpressed. Doctor Chapel stands at the fore, her arms folded firmly over her blacks, blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun.

"Report," Spock demands.

Chris gestures around the room with one hand. "Conscientious objectors," she explains, "every single one of us. It's going to be hard to keep playing taxi with nobody to fly the shuttles," she indicates Chekov and a few other pilots, then extends her hand to encompass the room. "No medics to man the shuttles, techs to maintain the shuttles, engineers to fuel the shuttles ... need I go on?"

Beside him, Spock makes a noise that is almost a sigh.

Jim turns to face the door, shoulder to shoulder but positioned so that nobody can read his lips. "Which of us gets to tell the Captain we've caused a mutiny?"

-:-

"I'm pulling the plug on this harebrained scheme of yours, Kirk!" Taylor takes another portly turn around the ready room and swipes at his thinning hair. "What am I supposed to tell the brass back home? That my staff have essentially staged a walk-out over orders that don't even _exist?_ They're going to love that, Pike might laugh but the Admirality ..."

"Captain, this will all blow over," Jim soothes, trying his best to sound confident as well as subordinate. "We expected a degree of unrest given how strongly the crew feel about humanitarian missions. They wouldn't be EPAS if leaving people behind didn't rub them the wrong way."

"Well, now it's rubbing my reports the wrong damn way!" Taylor snaps, biting off his words as though they offend him. "Dammit, Spock, I told you to keep an eye on him!"

"With all due respect, sir," Jim says quickly, "so far, everything's gone exactly to plan, and I ..."

"Exactly to plan?" Taylor looks almost apoplectic. " _Exactly to plan?_ "

"Sir ..."

"You mean to tell me you anticipated that sixty four percent of my crew would mutiny if you implemented this underhanded deception, and you didn't think it was worth mentioning?"

"We did not anticipate sixty four percent, Captain," Spock corrects calmly, "more in the order of forty percent, and the crew have not mutinied, they have merely taken advantage of their legal right to protest an order they deem unethical."

"That's still nearly half my damn crew, Commander! I know we're a civilian operation, but there's something to be said for operating under a military hierarchy and having a direct order followed without question!"

"I concede your point. However, since none of the crew expressing objection have the option to leave the _Stalwart_ , I deem the potential ramifications of conscientious objection to be minimal, if any."

"You do, do you?"

Spock regards the cherry-faced Captain with perfect equanimity. "Yes, sir, I do. Should we have need of the sixty four percent, they are readily accessible."

Taylor doesn't look like he really knows where to go with that, so he rounds on Jim instead. "How much longer are you going to need with this damn sideshow you're running? I've got a comm from the Minister for Health asking me why his nephew is convinced EPAS are abandoning the Robii to the Romulans." He's breathing heavily through his nose as he plants both hands on his hips. "Did you know the Minister's nephew serves in Engineering?"

Jim shifts from one foot to the other. "No sir, I didn't."

"No, well, neither did I until this morning!"

Jim decides it's time he just shut his mouth and let Spock do the talking. Unfortunately, that just results in Taylor looking back and forth between the two of them in growing agitation, as Spock apparently has nothing to add. Finally, when it looks like he's either going to kill them or simply explode, he grits his teeth together and says, "I don't care what you do, or how you do it, but you've got twelve hours, gentlemen. Get. This. Done."

Kirk and Spock snap smart salutes and make good their escape. The Bridge crew studiously ignore them on their way to the turbolift, which only serves to reinforce Jim's belief that the walls on these older Constitution class ships just aren't as soundproof as Starfleet would have them believe. Safely ensconced behind the lift door, Spock seems to sag the tiniest bit.

"I thought he was going to make us write lines," Jim whispers, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Or maybe send us to bed without any dinner."

"This is not a time for levity."

Jim turns to look at him, curiosity genuinely piqued. "When _is_ your preferred time for levity?"

"We have twelve hours to accomplish what we initially hoped to achieve in twenty-four."

"No problem," Jim says easily. "We just have to call in the cavalry, is all."

To his credit, Spock tolerates the colloquialism with nothing more than a blink. "Explain."

"Well, I don't know about you, but that Twine Party sounds kind of awesome."

Spock gives him a look quite reminiscent of those he often turns on McCoy. Jim inwardly quails, but manages a jaunty wink. "Never trust to diplomats what you can trust to a bunch of hot women."

When he fears Spock might actually be able to drill holes through his living flesh with the lasers in his eyes, Jim feels forced to explain. "We're going to have to tell Uhura, Chapel, Hannity and that new chick on Ops."

"Gaila," Spock supplies instinctively. "She is an Orion."

Jim rubs his hands together gleefully. "This just gets better and better."

  
-:-

  
Jim presses his hand against his injured cheek and rolls his jaw experimentally. "Wait, did you just _slap_ me like a bitch?"

Uhura points a perfectly manicured finger in his face. "You're damn lucky that's all I did!"

Spock's eyes dart from one human to the other but he doesn't move a muscle.

"I could _kill_ you!" Uhura hisses, teeth gritted. "You had us all believing we were going to be responsible for leaving billions of people to die!"

"A little help here?" Jim begs, one eye tearing up.

Spock just raises an eyebrow. The implication is pretty clear.

"Don't think that just because you told me now, it excuses for _one second_ ..."

"Uhura!" Jim fends her off with his free hand. "Wait a minute, just listen. If you thought of a way to save these people ... admittedly an immoral, underhanded, deceptive and devious way, but one that would work, wouldn't you use it?"

She plants her hands on her hips and taps her booted foot on the deck, looking anywhere but at Jim or Spock. Her delicate features show frustration, anger and a sort of grudging respect.

Jim pretends he's not holding his breath.

"Okay, fine!" she sighs. "You know I would."

"Good, then we're on the same team."

"No, Jim, we're not," she snaps. "Teams consist of individuals who work together, who _tell each other things_. I don't think you're familiar with the concept."

"A single leak can compromise the entire plan."

She tilts her head to the side in a manner highly reminiscent of Spock, if only he allowed himself to look so disappointed in people. "The day I jeopardize a save on any scale, I'll turn in my tabs. This is more than a job to me, Jim; I'm here because I believe in what we're doing. Don't ever forget that again."

He lets his hand fall from his cheek, staring out at her from above the redness, poking around at the inside of his mouth with his tongue. "Can you vouch for the others?"

Uhura straightens and directs her answer to Spock and him alone. "Yes, sir. I can."

Spock's communicator chirps, breaking the tableau. He answers it with a flick of his wrist. "Spock here."

 _Commander, the captain of the Tat'sar is demanding that we break orbit and make best speed to New Vulcan. I know it's not your purview, but Captain Taylor told me to get you to handle it, sir._

His face blanks completely, the hints of expression that had been visible only now apparent by their absence. "Acknowledged. Spock, out."

Jim takes a step closer to him. "Do you want a hand with that?"

"You have business to attend to," he declines. "Ensure that this elaboration on our original plan does not result in any emergency, major diplomatic incident or reportable offense while I am unavailable to rectify it."

Jim gapes as Spock sweeps out of the room.

Uhura looks puzzled. "Did he just make a joke?"

  
-:-

  
Senekot is waiting for him outside his quarters. Spock is unsurprised by the choice of venue; whatever motivation the Vulcan captain has for making his demand, it is unlikely to be one he wishes to discuss in the company of his own subordinates.

Spock unlocks the door and gestures for the captain to precede him.

"I have the backing of the High Council, Spock. You would do well to advise your captain to accede to our request," Senekot opens without preamble.

Ignoring the flutter of irritation at the lack of courtesy, Spock strolls to the replicator and punches in two glasses of water that he then sets on the desk, one near each chair.

"Take rest, heal your thirst," he offers traditionally.

Despite his obvious contempt for Spock's role and person, Senekot cannot refuse the custom, so he lowers himself stiffly into the chair and takes a sip from the tall glass. "I see you have not entirely forgotten the ways of your father's people."

"Vulcan is never far from my thoughts," Spock answers diplomatically, choosing not to dwell on Senekot's oblique reference to his human blood.

"Vulcan is no more." Senekot regards him piercingly over his glass before setting it down in the pool of its own condensation. "There are rumours among the people that you turned down a place at the Vulcan Science Academy in order to serve within this Federation ambulance service. No Vulcan has ever done so."

Spock lowers his own glass, barely touched. "Then as I am only half Vulcan, the record is still unblemished."

"I see no logical advantage to such a decision."

"Perhaps because you do not possess all the pertinent facts."

Senekot's face is utterly blank. "Perhaps, and yet, I know more than you may think."

"Indeed?" Spock quirks an eyebrow.

Silence sits between them, but it is not the comfortable variety or even the polite variety. Spock has not known its like since his last moments on Vulcan-that-was, facing down his parents and his peers to make a decision that would earn their disapproval and irrevocably shape the rest of his life. Strangely, that thought fills him with peace. No future choice could even begin to haunt him so profoundly. The realization is liberating.

It is Senekot who looks away first. "It is imperative that the _Tat'sar_ and her crew be returned to _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ immediately."

"Why?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that information."

"Without it, I am unable to recommend to my captain that he agree to the change in our schedule."

"Since you are already abandoning the people of Robicon IV to die at the hands of Romulans, what difference can a few hours make?" Senekot asks, completely devoid of emotion after their quick exchange.

For the first time, Spock feels truly discomfited. Lying to humans and the Robii is one thing; lying to a Vulcan is both culturally and practically far more difficult. He wishes Jim were here to give him an opening, to locate the fault line in Senekot's perfect exterior. Then he recalls their strange and untimely confessions in the Observation Lounge and realises that Jim has, in fact, given him the very weapon he needs. Spock must speak the truth in order to deceive.

Calmly, blankly, he folds his hands upon the desk and tells Senekot, "you would not understand." It is not a lie, but neither is it an answer.

With an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the captain of the _Tat'sar_ pushes to his feet, water forgotten on the table. "The High Council will be most disappointed, Spock."

Spock rises to match him. "I am accustomed to their disappointment."

"Of that, I have no doubt."

Senekot declines to make the _ta'al_ and merely nods his head in the barest show of acknowledgement before making his exit.

Spock stares after him thoughtfully, wondering if the Council are indeed involved, or whether Senekot is merely invoking their name in the assurance that someone as outcast as he would not dare contact them to verify it. It is a very un-Vulcan tactic, but there has been little about Vulcan behavior since the destruction of their homeworld that can be called strictly characteristic. Desperate people do desperate things; a logical premise that Spock has seen proven time and time again during EPAS deployments. Urgency is the wellspring of irrationality, and if there is one thing he is certain of, it is that Senekot urgently wishes the _Tat'sar_ returned to the new colony.

Curiosity is not an emotion, therefore Spock feels at liberty to indulge his own.

His goal is certainly comprehensible enough; he wishes to ascertain what is motivating Captain Senekot's demands and his secrecy. In the hours since the _Tat'sar_ has been taken in tow, not a single surface scan or personnel exchange has been permitted. The Vulcan crew keep to their assigned quarters aboard the _Stalwart_ and the only person to travel back and forwards between the two ships is Senekot himself, and even then, only by transporter.

Spock knows Vulcans can and do withhold certain levels of information from the Federation as a whole, but cannot fathom why an isolated science vessel should be of such considerable interest to the Council of Elders. It is possible that Senekot is invoking political support improperly, but Spock does not think it likely, given what he has seen. This leaves him with several nagging variables that demand closer inspection. He cannot allow the _Stalwart's_ crew or her mission to be put in jeopardy unnecessarily.

Ostensibly, the _Tat'sar_ has been assigned to assist Starfleet Sciences in determining the exact nature of the gravitational weapon used by the criminal Nero. However, there have been no reported instances of Nero utilizing the weapon in the quadrant where the _Tat'sar_ was rescued; Spock has checked.

He presses the comm button. "Engineer Scott, report."

 _Scotty here, sir._

"Please report to starboard Ops."

 _On my way. Scotty out._

Spock stands, adjusts his cuffs and joins the flow of traffic in the corridor.

He acknowledges each and every salute with a nod of his head, thanks those who stand aside or offer up their places in the turbolift so that he might not be forced to endure physical contact. He knows their names, their ranks, their specialities. In a few rare instances he mentions something of personal note in passing and is gratified to observe the positive effect this has on morale. Their faces are largely familiar, their response to him a predictable blend of respect and what seems to be genuine appreciation. It is important to him because it illustrates how far he has come from the deeply disapproving Vulcan recruit he had been under Pike. He doubts that his associations have made him more human, although he acknowledges that it may seem so to other Vulcans. He justifies the nuances of body language, the slight tonal inflections in his voice, by the impact they have had on Prime Division over time.

Empathy is a fundamental expression of sentience. So said Surak himself.

"Is this all part of whatever crazy sensor simulations Lieutenant Kirk is running, sir?" Scotty asks the minute Spock walks into Ops. "I'm all for realism, but having the entire thing re-routed seems a bit too much, doesn't it?"

"I have every confidence in Lieutenant Kirk's ability to run a simulation," Spock replies, having decided it is largely true and unlikely to incriminate anybody. "I require your assistance with a calibration exercise."

"Aye, sir," Scotty sighs, taking a seat that is politely vacated by an experienced Ops veteran who is all too happy to take an extra coffee break.

Spock turns to the remainder of the five person skeleton crew and says, "lock down your stations and report to sickbay for a random physical."

Nobody grumbles, but they exit with less enthusiasm than the first tech.

"If you don't mind me asking, sir, just exactly what is going on?" Scotty leans towards him across the sensor board. "Not that I'm complaining, mind. It's just that half the ship is on strike, Kirk has me beaming three unaccompanied female crew down to some bleeding party about string and now I'm sitting here all alone with you staring at that heartbreaking beauty of a Vulcan ship wondering whether I'm going to regret asking this question right about ... now."

Spock considers the little he knows about Montgomery Scott, most of it gleaned from the good opinion of McCoy and Kirk. "We are about to have a sensor malfunction during a standard calibration exercise."

Scotty's eyes flick to the _Tat'sar_ and back to Spock before going saucer round. "Aye, sir!"

In perfect unison, their fingers fly over the touch screens, manufacturing a standard calibration sweep and incorporating an innocent looking spike in the low and ultra high frequency range that would look random on cursory inspection and last only long enough to confirm Spock's suspicion. It would not provide comprehensive data; merely an answer to two simple questions.

"Ready when you are, Mister Scott."

"Energizing."

Spock can not prevent himself from tensing slightly as the subroutine goes into effect and they get surges across the board. Several lights flash and a warning tone sounds before a capacitor blows and the system goes into safe mode. Scotty waves a hand to banish the sour electrical smoke wafting up from his keyboard.

"Got what you wanted, Commander Spock?"

Spock eyes the readings carefully before transferring them to a data chip and wiping the computer memory. With the chip clutched tightly in one hand, he pushes to his feet. "Indeed, Mister Scott. Indeed."

-:-

"Spock!" Kirk is practically beaming with excitement. "I've been looking for you! I just got a comm from Gaila. It seems the cover story I gave them is working, and ..."

He is cut short abruptly as Spock grips him by the arm and displays the data chip between finger and thumb. "There are approximately twenty three people of diverse racial origins aboard the _Tat'sar_ ," he reveals urgently. "Some of them are in need of medical attention."

Jim plucks the data chip from Spock's fingers, eyes wide. "What are you saying?"

"I do not know." Spock forces himself to release his grip on Kirk, chagrined to realize it had been an instinctive act born of turbulent emotion. It is illogical to use physical contact as a way to convey the importance of information.

"What's on the chip?" Jim asks, staring at it, his good humor utterly vanished.

"Proof of their presence and also of the unique gravitational signature of Nero's weapon."

Jim's eyes lift slowly to meet Spock's. "Was the ship present at an engagement? Is there any logical way they could have been exposed to the signature?"

"The _Tat'sar_ has been in active service for one year and eleven months. At no time has it come into contact with Nero directly." Spock calms himself with effort. "I am forced to hypothesize an alternative source of exposure."

Jim pales slightly but makes a determined fist around the chip. "Come on, we shouldn't talk about this in the corridor."

 


	15. chapter 3.5

Jim isn't sure what prompts him to choose his quarters as an appropriate venue for this discussion. He just knows they're talking conspiracy and worse and he's not going to be able to handle it if they do it in a sterile briefing room, because holy fuck, Vulcans in league with Nero? How does that even _begin_ to make sense?

"You are agitated," Spock observes, standing just inside the door with his hands behind his back.

"No shit!" Jim exclaims. "What the hell do we do?"

Spock crosses to the small desk and perches carefully on the edge, facing into the room. "I expect we will have no choice but to require the _Tat'sar_ to surrender any and all persons heretofore concealed aboard."

"Do you think they will?"

"Not willingly," Spock concedes. "However, provided we approach this situation logically and prepare a suitable incentive, I predict Captain Senekot will have no choice."

"Logically, right," Jim nods, pacing around his quarters. "Except there's nothing logical about this, starting with how you got those sensor readings in the first place."

Spock's expression is utterly blank. "There was a malfunction."

"Uh huh," Jim is shaking his head. "I'm not buying it and neither will Senekot."

"I do not require his belief, merely a degree of plausible deniability."

Jim tilts his head, a slight smirk breaking through. "Okay, let's just say for a minute that you can get those people beamed over; we don't know a thing about them. Who they are, where they're from, whether they're there willingly, how beat up they are ..."

From the hint of expression on Spock's face, he doesn't want to go there any more than Jim does.

"What I'm trying to say is," he continues, "we're flying blind. This could be the biggest political shit storm since Vulcan and we don't have the first idea how to avoid it."

The two Points lock eyes, one sitting calmly against the desk, the other with arms crossed defiantly.

"There is an old Earth adage that states necessity is the mother of invention."

Jim straightens sharply with surprise. "You want to wing it?"

Spock raises an eyebrow.

"You seriously want to wing it?"

"I have a plan." Spock's eyebrows draw level. "Of sorts."

Jim feels a frisson of frustration and admiration run through him. He can barely wrap his head around the facts and Spock is already putting together a strategy. Son of a bitch, he's sharp.

"Care to let me in on it?"

Spock hesitates for a split second, long enough to remind Jim that being taken into Spock's confidence is a rare occurrence. "I shall approach the Vulcan High Council directly," he reveals.

"I got the impression Captain Senekot is pretty tight with them. Do you think they'll even hear you out?"

"It would be illogical to refuse my communication," Spock says simply. "There can be no benefit in a lack of information."

"Even if they don't want to hear it?"

Spock gives him a look that could be mildly patronising. "Vulcans do not differentiate facts in such a manner."

"Okay," Jim wipes that idea with a wave of his hand. "What if they already know about it? What then?"

Spock takes a deep breath, his expression particularly shuttered. "Then we have stumbled upon a diplomatic and ethical infringement of considerable proportions."

Jim nods. "Epic, even. Are you prepared for what that might mean?"

"No," Spock says surprisingly. "I am not. Neither, I would think, are you."

"Touche, but my dad's not on the Council," Jim watches him carefully. "Yours is."

"My father is many things," Spock says tightly. "But I do not believe he would knowingly condone the poor treatment of innocents. If the situation is what it seems to be, there must be another explanation."

Jim tries not to feel bitter. "I admire your confidence, but in my experience, parents are made to disappoint you."

"Strange," says Spock, drawing himself up to his full height. "I have consistently found the reverse to be true."

Jim watches him leave with a strange feeling of emptiness. He doesn't have the time or the equilibrium to examine the implication's of Spock's parting remark, but the weight of it, the dead certainty that it's important won't leave him as he turns to other things. Even dealing with the urgent comm queue on his terminal can't distract him fully.

In fact, it's not until he selects the red-flagged security report from Federation Intelligence that his mind truly goes blank.

  
-:-

  
"My son," Sarek says, with perhaps the barest hint of surprise.

Spock inclines his head in greeting. "Father," he acknowledges. "I regret the inconvenience and disruption of your schedule. However, my captain requires an urgent conference with the High Council."

"For what purpose?" Sarek demands, his tone perfectly Vulcan, betraying nothing of what he might be feeling inside.

"To discuss the Vulcan science vessel we currently have in tow, the _Tat'sar_ , specifically her cargo and mission."

This gives Sarek visible pause. He leans back slightly and steeples his fingers before him on the table. To anybody else, it may simply have been a gesture of consideration, but Spock knows this man, was taught the same technique at his hands. It is the foundation of the initial forms for controlling emotion, and very revealing. Whatever is going on aboard the _Tat'sar_ , it seems Sarek is at least peripherally aware of its less than savory nature.

Beneath the desk, out of sight, Spock presses his own fingers together, trying desperately to ignore the symmetry and the sound of Jim's voice in his head. He knows, beyond the realm of rational thought, that whatever their differences, his father is a good person.

Sarek nods once. "We will speak with your captain."

  
-:-

  
Jim paces inside his quarters, feeling like his head might just explode. He wishes like crazy that he was aboard a Starfleet vessel, with a clear fucking chain of command, rather than Spock simply being Taylor's go-to man and everyone else taking their lead from Spock. Seriously, they need to work something out for situations like this, because he's commed the Bridge only to be told that both the Captain and the DivCO are currently conversing with the Vulcan High Council and are not to be disturbed for just any reason.

He gets angry, of course, and demands to know what _would_ be sufficient reason to disturb them. Perhaps if Nero drops out of warp right on top of them? Hull breach? Klingon attack?

The XO promptly disconnects him.

Two seconds later, a new comm drops into his mailbox with the header _'Attn: Lt. Kirk, James. T - Notification of Impending Disciplinary Action.'_

"Oh, fuck you very much!" Jim punches the terminal closed with his fist and snatches his communicator from the desk as he jogs out the door.

He wants to talk to someone about this, needs someone to bounce ideas off, but of course there's nobody with sufficient security clearance. He rakes a hand through his hair, absently realizing it needs to be cut again when it falls straight back into his eyes. This is bullshit and he knows it, and he could probably call Pike, but what does that look like for Spock, going over his head like that? Plus, Taylor would probably write him up, considering this was really in his purview, and not directly an EPAS matter. If Spock wasn't tied up, it would fall to him to deal with this, so with things as they stand, it's all eyes on Jim.

He pauses on his way to the bridge, one hand tapping out an agitated staccato rhythm on the turbolift door. No. The bridge isn't the answer. He just needs to prioritize and act quickly. Maybe, if he's lucky, Spock and Taylor will be available again by the time anything else needs doing. With the XO being an asshole about things upstairs, Jim knows he'll be fighting a losing battle to move the _Stalwart_ anywhere, so he decides to work with what he's got.

He palms the turbolift control and raises his communicator to his lips. "Lieutenants Chekov and Hannity?"

 _Sir?_

Their simultaneous and prompt replies soothe him somehow. "Meet me in the main shuttle bay, asap, and suit up." Jim requests the same destination from the turbolift and tries not to fidget as the levels flash by.

  
-:-

  
Uhura hates to admit it, but she's actually enjoying herself. A party about string sounded weird at best and downright dull at worst, but she has to hand it to the Robii; they know how to put on a show. Officials occupy podiums around the town square, sheltered from possible interference from the elements by multi-hued tarpaulins of various whimsical shapes and sizes. Dusky vermillion silk flutters among plucked scarlet blossoms and the smell of the local spiced wine is heavy on the air after recent rain.

She's turned her Universal Translator off in order to let the sounds of the local dialect wash over her, syntax so different from those she is more familiar with. It has none of the verb complexity of Orion, but some of the almost obsessive specificity of Vulcan. Looking around the bright and noisy space, she feels again the preemptive sense of loss. The thought of Nero extinguishing all this light and laughter fills her with dread. They cannot allow this to happen.

They arrived maybe an hour ago, each with an agenda, and had gone their separate ways almost immediately. Uhura's mark was the Undersecretary of Defense; a young, pre-emptively balding man with a calmness about him that belied his years. He was currently engaged in discussion with the Treasurer, so Uhura had double-clicked her comm to signal the others. Not that she's not enjoying herself, but Jim gave them a timeline and it makes sense to stick to it.

Her train of thought is almost as ruined as her dress when Gaila appears out of nowhere and accidentally jostles her elbow, spilling rich red liquid down her thigh.

"Oh, shit!" the redhead exclaims, instantly contrite. "It's like I'm drunk, my heels keep sinking into the mud."

Uhura extends one toned leg to display her own more practical boots.

"Yeah, sure," Gaila nods. "But tell me when I'm next going to have the chance to wear these babies?" Her own feet are encased in gorgeous swirling patterns of crystal and lace. "Sorry, though. I'll buy you a new dress the next time we get shore leave."

"Forget it," Uhura waves the offer aside. "Laundry can probably get it out. Have you done what we came to do?"

Gaila takes another sip of her drink and gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "Only in, like, the first five minutes after we got here. The rest has just been the icing on the cake."

Chapel is making her way across the square to their designated rendevouz point. She looks rather stunning in a pale blue shift with all her hair piled carelessly atop her head. When she draws level, Uhura makes a questioning face and Chris gives them a subtle thumbs up.

"Good, looks like we're all where we need to be," Uhura tells them when Chris is within earshot. "All we've got to do now is tip our hand a little, make them believe we're really leaving, then we can say goodnight and Jim will send Nix to come and get us."

"I can't believe we're not allowed to beam," Gaila pouts. "Can you imagine what the downdraft from a shuttle is going to do to a dress?"

Chapel's eyes flick from Gaila back to Uhura. "Okay, so for accuracy's sake, the last known co-ordinates of Nero's armada are?"

"Approximately two point six nine parsecs x, three point one parsecs y, plane of z minus eighteen degrees," Gaila answers promptly.

Uhura and Chapel turn to her with disbelieving eyes.

"What?" Gaila asks, looking offended. "I have this little subprogram I built into an app; it gives me constant real-time updates." She warms to the topic and pulls out her communicator to show them. "Look, all you do is click this little icon and ..."

"Is that a cartoon of Nero's face?" Chris screws up her nose, peering over Uhura's shoulder for a better view.

"Yup, with a party hat."

Chris looks like she doesn't know whether to be amused or horrified. "You Ops people are weird, you know that?"

"Whatever," Gaila shrugs. "Anyway, you can also do this neat little thing where it projects a predicted course based on the trend of previous known data points," she clicks enthusiastically, tilting the screen so everyone can see the bold red line that plots itself right through the planet they're standing on and directly to Earth. "Creepy, huh?"

Uhura's own comm unit chips loudly from her purse, making them all jump.

She pulls a face as she scans the message, then her frown grows steadily by the second. Finally, she holds it up so the others can read it.

 _Change of plan. Get to the rendevouz. Don't care how, just do it. Shuttle ETA ten minutes: 33N42/68W58 - Kirk._

She thumbs the backlight off and purses her lips. "Doesn't he know that's almost a klick away?"

"In heels?" Gaila adds in a pained voice.

"If we run, we can do that in about two or three minutes over uneven terrain," Christine speculates. "Add another minute or two for Gaila's shoes and if we leave in five, we should make the shuttle with time to spare."

"Okay," Uhura agrees, returning the comm unit to her purse. "Let's wrap this up."

  
-:-

  
Jim gives a tug on the seal of his EVA suit, tightening the collar. "How long 'til full power up?"

Chekov turns in his seat. "Thirty seconds, sir."

Hannity comes jogging over, still slower putting on her suit than any other Point. It's the kind of thing that takes practice, and she just hasn't had the chance. Her visor is tucked under her arm, gloves shoved in a pocket and Jim is hoping to hell that neither of them are going to need any protective equipment at all.

"What's all this about?"

He makes an apologetic face. "Sorry, need to know."

"Don't I need to know?" she presses, frowning up at him through her freckles.

She's looking so much younger in the dark polymer suit than Jim knows her to be and it makes his gut ache. It's the reason he's going along for what _should_ be a routine atmo mission; a simple taxi run. She's done Basic, of course, like the rest of them, but followed it up with five years on Ops. Until Ashe's accident, Hannity hadn't done more than the minimum requirement of EVA hours per year, having cross-specialized in Engineering, not Point deployment.

"We're picking up the rest of Nix's girls from a diplomatic function," he says, yielding slightly.

"In full EVA gear?" her tone is sarcastic. "What gives, fly boy?"

"Just," he waves at the shuttle, "get in and strap in, Lieutenant."

Hannity's lips form a thin line but she knows an order from the Divisional Point One when she hears it. "Aye, sir."

It's then that the lift doors chime and McCoy appears pushing Ashe in a wheelchair, Scotty, Ahern and Riley in tow. The doctor makes a beeline for Jim, and the expression on his face is nothing next to the one on Ashe's.

"You tell me to clear out the sickbay and prep for potential incoming, but you don't say why?" McCoy growls as soon as he gets close enough.

Ashe uses her good arm to push herself forward in the chair. "I tried to comm Spock, but all I get is messaging," her lopsided expression is hard, more like the woman he remembers. "I used to be you," she reminds him, "we have the same clearance. If you're going down there, someone up here needs to know what's going on."

"Echo Delta Niner Niner Six, ready to go sir," Chekov calls from the cockpit.

Jim slaps his gloves against his leg repeatedly, weighing his options. After a few seconds, he points at Riley, Ahern and Scotty, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "You three, long range scanners, go."

They jog over to the boards, re-routing what they need from other areas.

"Mind telling us what we're scanning for, Lieutenant?" Scotty calls without looking up from his board. "It might help."

Jim locks eyes with Ashe and McCoy. "Any unusual transmissions or energy signatures from Robicon IV," he tells Scotty. "I want every sensor bank barring standard precautions trained on that planet, understood?"

"Aye, sir. Understood."

"Jim," McCoy takes a step forward, pushing Ashe almost close enough to bump into his legs. "What is it?"

"No," Ashe's head lolls against the chair back in what might have been a negative. "Not here, right Jim?"

"Right."

She points awkwardly in the direction of the locker rooms. "That'll do, Leonard."

Her words might be slurred and her motor control shot to hell, but Ashe is still one of the sharpest. It does Jim good to realize it.

  
-:-

  
Uhura does her best not to feel guilty as she sees the penny drop for the Undersecretary of Defense. His pale blue eyes slide away, coming to rest on the place where his hands grip his napkin unusually tightly.

"I regret ..." he says, then takes a long swallow from his glass. "I regret that you will be unable to remain for the conclusion of festivities." He manages the press of his fingertips which makes it a genuine sentiment, even if his hands are shaking. "I confess, I had not considered this outcome."

It is unusually direct for a Robi, especially one in power, and Uhura likes him even more for it. She makes a complicated pass of one palm over the other. It says more on this planet than words ever could.

The Undersecretary's eyes, suspiciously damp, are fixed on her hands. "Thank you."

Uhura reaches out, etiquette be damned, and rests her fingers lightly on his sleeve. "There is still time."

He nods, jaw firming.

Of course, that's when they're both proven wrong.

  
-:-

  
"You can't be serious?" McCoy boggles.

"Deadly," Jim tells him.

"Well, this needs to go straight to Taylor!" the doctor whispers, thunderstruck. "What are we doing standing around here, talking about it?"

"Jim would have tried that," Ashe counters, her one obedient eyebrow lowering into a frown.

"Stuck in a confidential confab with the Vulcan High Council," Jim confirms. "His excuse for an XO wouldn't even pass him a message."

"Of all the ..."

"You're doing the right thing," Ashe interrupts, forcing her eyes to fix on Jim's face. "What you're doing, it's what I'd do."

"Thanks." Jim swallows around the lump in his throat, because, holy shit he needs to hear that. "Look, I should be back in under fifteen."

"Go," she waves clumsily in the direction of the door. "Take care of business, I'll comm you if we pick up anything."

McCoy's surprise morphs into concern. "You're on medical leave, Lieutenant."

Ashe can't quite make her head turn far enough to look at the doctor, but she tries. "There's nothing wrong with my faculties or my clearance."

"Ashe ..."

"I'm _needed_ here," she insists. "You can't deny that."

Jim watches McCoy chew his lip for a few seconds before nodding agreement. It gives him the freedom he needs to turn on his heel and sprint to the shuttle, waving off Hannity's concerned face as he springs up the runner. Before he's even fully strapped in, he slaps the door control and leans over his newly appointed Point One to call, "take us out, Chekov."

"Aye, sir!"

It's only then that Jim realizes that shit, this is his first mission as a Point Two and he's doing it without any kind of blessing.

  
-:-

  
Uhura stiffens instinctively. She doesn't need to see the terrified expression on the Undersecretary's face to realise what is going on. She's done too much self-defense training, been in too many sticky situations to fail to recognize the pressure of a weapon in the small of her back. It sits there, cold and deadly, right over her left kidney. She thinks of her cross-specialization training, recalls that the kidney is a really bad place to get shot. What was the percentage total circulation to the renal system? Twenty five percent, she thinks. Twenty five percent of her blood sitting right there, right in the line of fire. It wouldn't take her long to bleed out.

"Get up," a Robi voice says menacingly. "Slowly."

She does as she's told, watches the Undersecretary do the same, only now realizing that he's dealing with a similar situation. The people to either side of them rise, too. They're dressed as dignitaries from the outer regions, but their fingernails are stained, their nails rough and poorly polished. Uhura curses her preoccupation with the Undersecretary's discomfort, knowing that she's made a grievous error in failing to notice that disparity. No Robi of any importance would go a day without a manicure. Hands are so important on this planet.

"What do you want?" she asks softly, mentally begging for someone on the nearby tables to break with social protocol and glance their way.

The weapon digs more firmly into her back, and she realises that in her haste she's forgotten to add the gesture that implies respect. She may as well have said, 'what the fuck do _you_ want, anyway?' Damn.

There is warm breath on the back of her neck. "To live, Federation. Simply to live."

Uhura slowly and carefully makes the one-handed version of an apology. "Then we have that in common."

"All of us," nods the Undersecretary sincerely.

"I will not relate to you," Uhura's guard says menacingly. "I will not bond with you, sympathize with you or care what happens to you. Do not waste your time attempting a fruitless course of action."

A firm grip lands on her shoulder, tight enough to make her flinch.

"Be sensible and let the human go," the Undersecretary advises, sounding admirably calm under the circumstances. "Why bring the wrath of the Federation down upon yourselves? There are better enemies to make."

"You have done a sufficient job of annoying the Federation already. Why should I care what they think of us, when our government clearly does not?"

"Please ..."

"Silence!" the Robi hisses, using his grip on Uhura to spin her around so that she gets her first good look at the man holding the Undersecretary. "Do as you are told."

They make it to the edge of the square before the concussion wave knocks them off their feet.

  
-:-

  
"What in God's name was that?" Scotty winces, tearing out his earpiece and cramming a palm against his head in pain.

Ahern doesn't bother answering, just pulls up Nix's telemetry on her HUD. It shows them thirty seconds from rendevouz, but their signature is corrupted by the surge of electromagnetic and thermal radiation.

"I'm getting doctor McCoy," Riley says hurriedly, rising from his chair.

"Lieutenant Kirk," Scotty manages, one hand still nursing his sore ear. "I take it you heard that, sir?"

 _Heard it, Scotty? We can fucking see it from where we are! What the hell?_

"Your guess is as good as mine," the engineer sighs, releasing the hold on his ear to let his fingers fly across the diagnostics. "Still, I really think you ought to land that box of bolts before ..."

The board alights with warnings again, this second incident twice the size of the first. Lights flash and urgent tones sound. Scotty and Ahern exchange shocked glances.

"Nuclear?" she wonders in disbelief.

"What did you say?" McCoy asks, appearing in the hangar with Ashe pushed ahead of him.

Ahern looks to Scotty for confirmation, then swivels her chair to face the doctor and the ex-Divisional Point One. "Thermonuclear devices have just been detonated on the surface of Robicon IV."

A moment of shocked silence holds, then Ashe lurches forward in her chair, one uncooperative hand reaching for the mic button. "This is _Stalwart_ to shuttle Echo Delta Niner Niner Six, over?"

Static greets them.

"Nix, this is Ashe, do you copy?"

Again, static.

She turns to Ahern, grunting with the effort to make her body do her bidding. "Have you got them?"

Lioli flicks through filter after filter, Scotty doing everything he can to feed her more power and dampen the interference. After a few seconds, she shakes her head in apology. "No, sir. Too much EMR, I can't get a clear lock."

"But you've got something?"

She shrugs, unwilling to commit. "It could be a ghost, it could be them."

Ashe slumps sideways in her chair, rolling her head to look up at McCoy. "You know that point we spoke about? The one where Spock has to know about this no matter what? We just reached that point."

"Thank Christ for that," McCoy mutters, circling the wheelchair so fast that Ashe lurches from side to side.

"Scotty?" she calls over her shoulder. "Keep a comm line open. Jim's a good Point. He'll be in touch as soon as he can."

The engineer pulls his hand away from his head one last time, rubbing the dribble of blood between index finger and thumb. "Aye, sir."

"And get some Ops down here!"

  
-:-

  
Spock stands in the requisite subordinate position to Captain Taylor's right, but close enough that the comm unit picks up his presence. They have been debating with the Vulcan High Council for twenty eight point two nine minutes. It is becoming tedious.

The _Stalwart's_ position is clear. Captain Taylor has endeavored to make known to the Council that he will not accept anything other than full disclosure. However, a this rate, Spock is rapidly coming to the conclusion that forcing Senekot to accept medical aid alone from EPAS is the best possible outcome. What they need, as Jim would say, is a foot in the door. However, Taylor's methods do not lend themselves to subtlety and he is doggedly pursuing the line of their original demands despite Spock's rare hints and careful suggestions.

From the slight tension on Sarek's face, his father can see what he is trying to accomplish. Whether or not he approves is another matter. Spock has been so focused on achieving their end that he has not had the opportunity to properly gauge his father's reaction to the situation. It is enough to note that several of the High Council appear discomfited by the fact that an external body is aware of non-Vulcans being aboard one of their most prized science vessels. The issue of the weapon signature has not been raised. Taylor is aware, but Spock had argued strongly against disclosing their knowledge at this juncture. In his opinion, there could be no better way to ensure the Council's lack of cooperation.

"Ambassador Sarek," Taylor sighs. "I can't understand why you didn't ask us for medical aid in the first instance. You didn't seem to have any difficulty requesting that we tow you, why is this any different?"

"The confidential nature of the _Tat'sar's_ mission is such that ..."

Sarek is interrupted by Leonard McCoy, who bursts into the room pushing a wheelchair with an extremely agitated Starfleet Commander on his heels.

"I'm sorry, sir," the XO leaps in immediately. "The doctor wouldn't take no for an answer. Short of calling security, there was no way I could ..."

"Oh, put a sock in it, sweetheart!" McCoy growls, continuing on his beeline for Taylor and Spock. Pushing Ashe to the fore, he turns, crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the XO. He is unarmed and not a superior officer, but the XO backs down immediately, palms to the floor in an apologetic gesture.

"Captain, Commander," Ashe slurs, embarrassment with her condition making her eyes burn. "There is an urgent situation that requires your immediate attention."

Taylor cranes his neck to see around the intruders, gesticulating wordlessly at the series of raised eyebrows plastered over his vid screen. "Lieutenant Ho, I trust you can see that ..."

"Excuse me Captain," Spock interrupts neatly, his eyes glued to Ashe's teary determination, "but I believe it is necessary to postpone our current discussion." He turns to the vid screen and inclines his head in apology. "Operational necessity takes precedence over diplomatic matters."

There is something alight in his father's eyes as he nods in return. "Of course. It is only logical. We await the continuation of this debate at your convenience." Several of the other Council members turn to look at him as he cuts the connection. Spock cannot help the tiny spark of pride at his father's presumption.

McCoy clears his throat pointedly.

Spock raises an eyebrow at Ashe.

She wastes no time breaking the news to him gently, knowing that such tactics are lost on him. "At least two thermonuclear devices have been detonated on the surface of Robicon IV," she reports.

"Casualties?" Spock asks quickly.

"Unknown Robii casualties," Ashe replies, "one EPAS shuttle currently off comms, three crew known to be deployed at the site of the detonation, three others aboard the missing shuttle unaccounted for."

"Their names?" Spock asks, his stomach sinking before she even answers.

"Uhura, Chapel, Gaila, Chekov, Hannity and Kirk."

Taylor swivels to stare at Spock, accusation clearly written in his heavy scowl. "Commander?"

Spock's mind is racing. There are many possibilities, but none of them make sense. He would never have condoned a covert diplomatic mission to the surface if there was even the slightest indication of the potential for an attack on ...

"Sir," Ashe interrupts his train of thought. "Jim said to check your comms." She shrugs. "He said it would make sense."

Spock stalks around the desk, not waiting for the Captain's permission before he accesses his own account on that terminal. The red-flagged Starfleet Security alert catches his eye immediately. He opens it, absorbs its contents in a few seconds. It then takes another second for him to control his immediate response, which is anger.

"Why was I not made aware of this immediately?" he asks.

McCoy turns, eyebrows raised, but Spock's eyes are drilling into the XO, not him.

"Why was the Captain also unaware?" Spock presses.

"I ..." the XO looks to the Captain for support. "You insisted you weren't to be disturbed, sir!"

Taylor scowls at everyone then fixates on Spock. "What is going on, Commander?"

Spock turns the terminal screen with a flick of his wrist, his dark eyes hooded by an impressive frown. "Starfleet Security briefing, high priority," he recites from memory. "Please be aware that there have been indications of possible terrorist activity by members of a Robii splinter cell known as 'Robicon for all Robii.' All military and civilian units should avoid places of significant political or military importance until such time as this warning is revoked."

Taylor's anger melts away and he lifts a hand to his lips. "And we have how many people down there?"

"Six," Spock reiterates.

"And you authorized this?"

Spock's voice catches in his throat, because technically, he only authorized the deployment of three of those six. However, his mind performs a quick mental extrapolation based on the limited information he has, and concludes that Jim has taken a shuttle and a skeleton crew to the surface to personally retrieve their endangered personnel. If not for the Robii's insistence that all beaming be blocked by planetary shields for the duration of the Balwinter Treaty celebrations, it would not have been necessary. It is what he would have done in Jim's situation.

"Yes, sir," he says firmly. "The authorisation was mine."

"Well, then I suggest you sort this mess out, because the responsibility will also be yours."

Spock refuses to let his emotions get the better of him, and merely salutes before sweeping out of the room, not bothering to wait for McCoy or Ashe. He presumes they know exactly where he is heading.

  
-:-

  
Jim comes around first. His ears are ringing and his mouth is full of dirt. He wiggles his toes and splutters a bit, trying to get a sense for how fucked up he is before he tries anything bigger than that. There are a few things that hurt, but overall, once again he's proven to be one lucky son of a bitch. Experimentally, he drags a gloved hand across the soil and uses it to roll himself onto his side. That hurts, he won't lie, but it affords him a view of the smoking wreck of their shuttle.

To do Chekov credit, the kid has done a great job of putting them down somewhere relatively flat and at a decently shallow angle considering how high they were when the blast knocked out their engines and instrumentation. There weren't many pilots who could have set them down in one piece. He has a vague memory of jumping a few seconds before impact, with the rationale that if the shuttle exploded and Hannity died, there might be one person left to look for the others. Alternatively, if he misjudged the drop and broke his neck, the shuttle might hold together leaving Hannity to extract Uhura, Gaila and Chapel. Poor odds either way, but it made sense to split them.

In his peripheral vision, Jim senses movement and cranes his neck for a better look. Near the nose of the shuttle, a figure is staggering towards him, leaning heavily on the hull. The skinny silhouette is instantly recognisable.

"Chekov!" Jim croaks, then coughs and tries again. "Chekov!"

"I am coming, sir!"

Jim grits his teeth and uses the arm he's lying on to get vertical, because damn if he was going to be the one lying down if that kid is up and walking about. Pain shoots through his wrist and he gasps involuntarily. Information flashes before his eyes and he performs a quick series of manipulations he learned in cross-specialization, inferring from the result that it's not broken, just badly sprained.

Chekov's knees hit the dirt in front of him. "Why are you not in de shuttle?" the kid asks, eyes wide.

"Thought I'd get rid of your extra ballast," Jim quips, taking hold of the edge of his visor and throwing it into the bushes. It feels better, to breathe without it whistling through the shattered plassteel. Still, damn thing probably saved his life. He should show a little more respect. "You hurt?" he asks, instead.

Chekov shakes his helmeted head. "No, sir. Bumps and bruises only, sir."

Jim gives him a wide grin. "You're one hell of a pilot, you know that?" but doesn't give him a chance to reply, just uses him as purchase in order to drag himself to his feet. He wavers there for a few seconds, feeling all his blood rush to strange places, then puts one foot in front of the other and doggedly starts making his way over to the shuttle.

"Oh my," Chekov whispers, hurrying to join him. "Lieutenant Hannity!"

Jim is way ahead of him, already crawling up the buckled runner and flicking on his torch to light the smoky interior. She's easy to find, still strapped in her seat, like he should have been. "Here," he says, handing Chekov the torch without even looking and breaking out his portable medical scanner. It bleeps brokenly so he slams it against the bulkhead and it whirs to life obediently. It says Annie is unconscious, bruised, battered, but otherwise unharmed.

He takes the torch back from Chekov and jams it between his teeth. "Come on," he mumbles, almost incomprehensible around the torch. "Give me a hand." Chekov understands the intent if not the words, and together, they manage to unclip her and ease her out of the oily smoke and into the clear.

Jim returns to the shuttle, leaving the kid gently shaking her by the shoulder and calling her name anxiously. Stims, he thinks, fumbling around in the half-dark, eyes starting to water from the smoke. Fuck, he doesn't stock the shuttle, just his kit, where are the ... ah. He clambers back out of the wreck that used to be Nix, finding that the more he moves, the less things hurt. Yeah, that will last all of an hour before the stiffness sets in, so he best make use of that time. Two hypos later and Hannity is staring up at them, looking confused and in pain.

"We crashed?"

"Landed unexpectedly," Chekov corrects her with a grin. "I am pleased to see you are okay, Lieutenant."

"Okay is going a bit far," Hannity winces.

Jim offers his hand and she takes it, managing to make it to her feet with a bit of help.

"Got it?" he asks her, their gloved hands still clasped.

"Yeah, think so," she nods her visored head. "So, what's the plan?"

Jim's had a few minutes to think this over, so he's able to answer fairly confidently. "That blast had EM, right Chekov?"

"Right," the boy nods emphatically. "It disabled all primary and secondary systems immediately."

"Okay, but it was also thermal, you saw the cloud." He pauses to let both of them nod. "You know what that means?" Both looking a little scared now, they nod again. "Okay, so break out the antis and make with the hypo," he instructs. "Then I want you two to stay here so we have a fall-back position."

"But, sir!" Chekov protests, pausing in his assembly of the right radiation meds.

"Jim," Hannity says, not as loudly but just as urgently. She takes a step into his personal space. "You're in no condition to go looking for the others by yourself."

He shrugs and offers his arm to Chekov for his shot. "This is where the _Stalwart_ are going to start looking for us. This is as secure a location as we're going to find. If I go ahead and run into trouble, I sure as shit want somewhere to fall back to. I want people I can rely on to hold out, you understand me?"

"What about if I go with you and Chekov stays here?" she asks in an undertone.

"Annie," he whispers back, "he's go no Starfleet, he's only had Basic for hand-to-hand and small arms, how long do you think he'd last if we both go and whoever lit up the Capitol comes looking for the big shiny thing that fell out of the sky?"

She looks torn but unconvinced.

"You've got to think of the bigger picture," he says persuasively, waving his arm impatiently in Chekov's direction and hurrying to finish his pitch before the kid gets close enough to overhear. "Have you ever seen anyone fly like him?"

Hannity shakes her head, no.

"It won't just be sad if he dies here alone, it won't just be unfair," he catches her gaze and raises his eyebrows, "it will be a waste of an amazing resource and I will not be responsible for that. Ow!"

Chekov twirls the hypo in one hand. "Sorry, sir."

"You don't look the least bit sorry," Jim bitches, trying to ignore the tears welling in Hannity's eyes, trying to distract Chekov from the same by drawing him aside with an arm over his shoulders.

"Now, Pavel," he says conversationally. "You've been pulling cross shifts in Ops since the beginning, right?"

"Right!"

"How long do you think it will take you to build us a transmitter?"

"A transmitter?" he echoes, halting and staring at Jim as if he's crazy. "With no power?"

"You're a smart kid, you'll figure it out." Jim waves an arm at the smoking wreck of their shuttle. "You've got more tech here than you could ever need. How hard can it be?"

"Wery, wery hard," the kid scowls.

"Chekov, we need to be able to talk to the _Stalwart_ , we need to be able to tell them where we are, but most importantly, we need to tell them we're _alive_. You saw that blast, what it did to our instruments, you think they're going to be able to scan for life signs through all the crap that just got kicked up?"

Chekov shakes his head. "No, sir. They will not."

"Okay, so we need something big and loud and obnoxious to draw their attention."

"It is a pity Doctor McCoy is not here, sir," he smiles suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "It would save me a lot of hard work."

Jim shakes his head, but the grin is echoed on his own face. "Get to work, smart ass. I want that transmitter working by the time I get back with the others, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!" Chekov snaps off a cheeky salute.

Hannity tilts her head and frowns at him, perplexed by the sudden change in atmosphere.

Jim shrugs. "So we crashed, we're being irradiated and the others are missing. No point being down in the mouth about it."

"Aye, sir!" Chekov seconds, already on his knees, waving aside the smoke in the shuttle as he begins stripping components out of the walls.

Hannity takes a moment to keep looking bemused, but palms her own phaser and jerks her head in the direction of the Capitol. "Go," she says. "I've got this."

  
-:-

  
Uhura doesn't so much get to her feet as she is dragged to her feet by the fist in her hair. She thrashes around, landing a couple of solid punches before that pressure returns to her back and she stills, heart hammering against her ribs.

The square, so festive a moment ago, is filled with smoke and debris, the torn remnants of the pavilions fluttering down from the sky like silken ash, multi-hued and disgustingly festive amongst the carnage. Bodies lie strewn in unnatural poses, some of them still moving. Beside her, the Undersecretary stands with his hands on his head, bleeding from the ears and nose, but otherwise unharmed. Their captors had moved them just in time. The wall of the Council building had shielded them from most of the blast. Others hadn't been so lucky.

Uhura's heart gives a lurch in her chest. Chris! Gaila!

But then, suddenly, there they are, walking ahead of two other Robii with guns, their hands on their head, Gaila making awkward progress with one shoe off. Uhura takes a deep steadying breath. They're in this together. They're going to miss their rendevouz. That alone, never mind the explosions, will alert Jim to the fact that something is wrong. They're going to make it out of here.

She can tell the exact moment when the other two women recognize her. They're a lot closer by that point and she wonders just how messed up she looks that it took them so long.

"You guys okay?" she asks.

"Silence!" her Robi shouts.

The others nod anyway, wide-eyed but impressively calm. "Just hang in there," she assures them, ignoring the way the gun twists in her back.

The Robii converse quickly, tersely over their heads. She has no idea where her UT has gone, or her purse, which has her communicator. Still, she didn't major in linguistics for nothing, and even without it, she is able to gather that their terrorist plans have gone somewhat awry. Apparently there was supposed to be a simultaneous assault on the Capitol spaceport, but someone got cold feet or got discovered, and now they have no escape plan.

Shit. A desperate criminal is a dangerous criminal. Uhura tries to make eyes at the other two, tries to indicate they might have to take their chances in an attempt to disarm their captors. She has no intention of being shot out of hand just because these idiots have no idea what to do now. To hell with that.

  
-:-

  
Jim has the smoking ruins of the Capitol Square in sight. He's stripped off as much of his EVA suit as he can, trying to lessen the weight he's carrying. All he's kept on him is his phaser, communicator and his med kit. He's made good time, but seriously though, the thin, flexible soles of his boots aren't made for running on cobbled streets.

He sees them before they see him, which is what saves him. From the look of the weapons they've got pressed against their six hostages, his tiny standard issue phaser isn't going to be much of an asset. He throws himself down behind a tumbled masonry wall and thumbs through the settings, choosing maximum stun. It will give him less rounds before he's out of charge, but he stands more chance of doing something other than just pissing them off.

He's out of breath and that stiffness has well and truly set in, but the rush of adrenaline he gets when he peeps over the low wall and finds Uhura staring straight at him is enough to give him a second wind. Good, she knows someone's here for them. He could wish the rescue party consisted of more than just him in his current state and with a shitty EPAS phaser, but hey.

Another body hits the ground next to him and he jumps in shock, whipping his phaser up. Dark eyes meet his own and Spock gently raises a hand to push the barrel out of his face.

"Lieutenant," he says by way of greeting.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" Kirk wants to know.

"I presume that is a rhetorical question," Spock replies, angling his head to take in the situation over the wall.

Jim thinks about that for a second. "Not entirely, no."

Lioli Ahern, newly appointed Point Two of Nix Beta, joins them with a slight scuffle. "Hey, Jim."

"Hey there," he replies absently, still fixated on Spock. "So, how did you find me?"

"Lieutenants Hannity and Chekov informed us of your intended destination when we homed in on their emergency beacon," Spock indicates two other huddled forms a few metres away.

"Wow, they built that thing quickly." Jim is impressed.

"I shall be commending them upon our return to the _Stalwart_ ," Spock informs him. "However, if we might concentrate on the task at hand?"

"Oh. Sure."

Jim rolls onto his knees, sneaking another look around the corner just as Spock does the same from over the top. They duck back under cover and exchange glances.

"Circle round?" Jim asks.

"Three pronged attack," Spock seconds.

"I'll go left."

"I shall trend to the right."

They both turn to Ahern. "You may take the center," Spock tells her.

"Oh, good."

Jim doesn't give any of them time to think, because really, what they're doing is rather insane. This kind of rescue work is not their everyday kind of rescue work. This is more Starfleet's thing; perhaps even special ops. They're not trained for this, any of them, but it's not going to stop them.

Jim drops the guy holding Gaila first. He's down but not out so he dives on top of him, fighting for possession of the Robi weapon; the one that has the potential to actually do any damage. Gaila ducks a bolt from the guy covering Uhura, but he doesn't get a second one off, because all that hand to hand training Uhura's been doing comes into play and she takes him easily, laying him out in the rubble with a combination that Jim seriously has to learn from her later.

Ahern doesn't move quite quickly enough, and fields a bolt from a Robi weapon in her left thigh, she collapses to her knees, but manages to stun her adversary. It's glancing, though, and doesn't take him out of the fight.

Jim grabs his Robi's hand with both of his and slams it into the ground repeatedly until his gun goes flying. Then the guy hits him in the mouth, and fuck, his teeth just went through his lip, he's pretty sure. They wrestle for a few seconds until Jim gets him in a strangle hold, his body wrapped around the other guy, his arm slowly choking the breath out of him.

For the first time, this allows him to get a look at what Spock is up to. It's fucking insane.

Spock has already dropped his initial mark, Jim didn't even see that bit, it happened so quickly, so now he's moved on to Ahern's. Both of them have lost their weapons, so it's hand to hand, and even as the Robi body in his arms goes slack in defeat and mild asphyxiation, Jim feels suddenly inadequate.

Spock blocks every blow with apparent ease, his forearms perfectly placed, a calm sort of concentration on his face. He whirls, lands a kick in the Robi's solar plexus, his arms raised for balance as he lands, hardly pauses then follows it up with an overhead fist to the face and a backhander with his other arm. The Robi sways on his feet for a second, then collapses to the ground. Spock isn't even breathing hard.

Jim glances down at the body in his own arms and figures he better release it. Uhura is running over to Ahern, but McCoy beats her to it. Shit, Jim didn't even see McCoy, where had he been hiding? Gaila moves to support Chapel, who must have been injured in the scuffle, and that leaves Jim staring at Spock from his sprawl on the ground.

"Do you require assistance?" the Commander asks calmly.

"No?"

A gloved hand appears in his face. Jim grabs it, allows Spock to effortlessly haul him to his feet and then release him.

"What the hell was that?"

Spock raises an eyebrow.

Jim points at the guy Spock beat into unconsciousness in a matter of seconds. "I've never seen you do that before."

The Commander follows the direction of Jim's finger and then lifts the eyebrow higher. "Previously, there has not been an occasion that called for it."

Jim is left standing alone as Spock turns away, raising his communicator to his lips, trying to raise the _Stalwart_. He watches as the rest of the personnel come out of hiding, crossing the square at a run, hoping to lend a hand. Every one of them is bold, brave and magnificent despite their fear, but Jim can't really take it in. Something has happened, has shifted until the pieces of his life fit a little differently. It leaves him strangely disorientated. Something definitive is going on. He raises a dirty hand to his face and scrubs at his eyes like he can erase what he's seen and how it makes him feel.

It's then that Spock turns to him, a hint of distress showing through.

"What? What is it?" Jim crosses to him immediately, instinctively taking hold of his arm as though he has something to offer, as though he is allowed.

"It appears that there was a partially successful assault on the Capitol spaceport," the Commander says flatly. "The Robii government believed the insurgents had managed to procure transport offworld and therefore scanned the space surrounding their planet in order to identify the supposed escape vessel."

"So?" Jim isn't following, but he can see Spock is concerned.

"So, they have successfully scanned the _Tat'sar_ and identified both the twenty three injured aboard and the unique gravitation signature of Nero's weapon." Spock finally meets his eyes. "The selfsame signature we provided in order that they might have forewarning of Nero's advance."

Jim's grip tightens on Spock's bicep. "This is going to complicate things."

"Undoubtedly."

After a moment, Spock glances pointedly at Jim's hand.

He removes it, using it to awkwardly rub the back of his neck instead.

 

 


	16. chapter 3.6

Jim and Spock are walking briskly towards the epicenter of the blast that has decimated the Robicon Capitol Square. The place is already swarming with EPAS medical crew and Points. The dead are being laid out along what remains of the east wall of their council chambers, rather tastelessly but practically, covered by a few of the brightly hued tarpaulins that weren't required earlier in the evening.

Presents under the tree, thinks Jim, and feels intensely nauseated.

Gaila has stolen a headset and a mobile terminal from some poor hapless bastard and is coordinating the inbound and outbound flights like the pro she is. Jim spares a grin for her as they pass. She's still only got one shoe on.

Spock finally thumbs his comm, shutting off the deluge of information filtering through from Ops. "The Robicon armed forces are requesting an immediate explanation of the _Tat'sar's_ presence, her cargo and her unusual energy signature," he says striding out so that Jim has to stretch to keep up. "Captain Taylor is coordinating a response with the Vulcan High Council."

"Alone?"

Spock spares him a glance that may be slightly pained. "I have requested a video conference be patched through at our current location, however, due to the ongoing interference, it may not be possible."

"Working on it!" Gaila shouts without looking up from her display.

"In the meantime, it is logical that we collect evidence that this act of terrorism is Robii in origin, rather than attributable to the orbiting _Tat'sar_ as some members of the Robii population have postulated."

"Are you serious?" Jim raises a hand to his aching head. "Ask anyone who was here, they'll lay the blame squarely where it belongs."

Spock steps over a pile of rubble, arms shifting to assist his balance. "The parameters of sociology dictate that acts of terrorism almost never occur in the absence of provocation."

Jim uses his hands to scale the uneven mound and they come away dusty and white with particulates. "You're _excusing_ them?" he spits a little blood from the split in his lip as he straightens.

Spock's mouth frowns. "I am not. Merely pointing out that there are always at least two sides to every story."

"Good, because 'Robicon for all Robii' is something of a contradiction when you start killing the people you're supposed to be championing." Spock slows, but Jim doesn't notice, angry as he is. "I mean, what a bunch of fucking cowards," he continues on, oblivious, feeling the remnants of explosive heat through the thin soles of his boots. "They obviously have no idea what the Federation stands for if they think that killing innocent people is going to hasten negotiations."

"You feel no responsibility for the current situation?" Spock asks.

Jim stops in his tracks and turns. "Are you _serious?_ "

Spock resumes walking, drawing level with Jim as he speaks. "The two of us deliberately perpetuated the falsehood that the Federation is withdrawing from evacuation negotiations with Robicon IV. You do not recognise the correlation between our actions and the heightened state of political tension that prompted such action from within the Robii extremist population?"

Jim wants to say no, wants to dismiss it out of hand, but the thought sends a chill down his spine. "I didn't ... oh thanks for that," he scowls. "I really needed to feel worse about what happened here today. Not only was Nix destroyed, Chekov and Hannity injured, Uhura, Chapel and Gaila almost killed, but now it's all my fault."

"That was not what I intended to imply. I merely wished to impress upon you the interconnectedness of events. No one thing happens in isolation from another; however, it is not always possible to predict the many ways in which a single action may affect the continuum. It is logical to regret the loss of life and to analyze the precursors that led to this attack. It is not logical to assume full responsibility for the heinous actions of others."

It's one of the longest speeches Spock has ever directed at him, but that doesn't stop Jim from turning away, teeth gritted. "I feel so much better now." In fact, he feels like crap, but he pulls out his tricorder and starts taking readings. He's so focused on how angry he is, how guilty, that it takes a few seconds for the readings to register.

When they do, he turns to find Spock already looking at his own device.

They both raise their heads to take in the scene. There are maybe fifty EPAS crew working on stabilizing the wounded for transport. They are a sea of reflective piped suits. Reflective piped _radiation_ suits.

Before either of them can say anything, McCoy appears waving his suited arms like a madman. "Son of an bitch, what the hell is wrong with you two?"

"Doctor ..."

"Spock, I don't care if you're Vulcan or not, you can't withstand this many rads without damage. And Jim!" McCoy raises his hands in supplication to whatever higher power might bear witness to this stupidity. "Just felt like a little stroll around ground zero did you?"

"Bones ..."

"Both of you, beam out now, straight to decontam." When neither of them move, he plants his hands on his hips and glowers. "Now!"

  
-:-

  
"How long do we have to be in here?" Jim calls through the transparent aluminium.

"Two to seven hours," McCoy calls back, not even looking up from his display. "Difficult to say without knowing how badly you were exposed."

" _How_ long?"

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor not a fortune teller!" he snaps. "Now change out of that suit and step into the booth, already! Spock, you too."

Jim sighs heavily but turns to face the disposal chute and starts flicking the pressure seals on his EVA suit. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Spock doing the same thing in the next cubicle. Obediently naked, Jim steps into the airtight booth used for gaseous decontamination. It always makes him feel slightly claustrophobic, but with an audience, he firmly tamps down his anxiety and shuts the airtight door. At least they don't have to endure a total body crew cut.

"Now, remember, kids," McCoy's voice comes tinny over the inbuilt speaker, "keep your eyes open and take deep, regular breaths. The nano molecules have to permeate your circulatory system in order for this to be effective. That's going to take time."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim mutters. "Get it over with, we need to talk to the Vulcan High Council."

The mic cuts McCoy's long suffering sigh halfway through, then plumes of shimmering air hiss from the cubicles vents. The gas is colourless, but distorts everything, and has an odour strongly reminiscent of hydrocarbons. It smells explosive and immediately irritates Jim's eyes, causing them to tear up. Pretty soon his nose starts running, too.

"Bones?"

"Just ignore it," the doctor advises. "Keep blinking. You can have a real water shower after this."

"What the hell _is_ this stuff?" Jim complains, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Polydeltanarcobendrite fifty percent to twenty five of oxygen and nitrogen apiece."

Jim rolls the unfamiliar term around in his mouth.

"You did ask," the doctor mocks with a twang of southern satisfaction. "It'll probably make you a bit light headed in a moment."

"Yeah, I'm feeling that." Jim throws out a hand to steady himself as black spots dance before his eyes. "Bones, I'm pretty sure I'm going to pass out. Just thought you should know."

"Hang in there, kid. You've got forty seconds to go."

"That's thirty nine too many," he protests, sliding down the wall as his legs decide to give up on this whole standing thing.

"Talk to me, Jim."

"What do you want me to say?" he gasps, ears ringing and vision tunnelling.

"How should I know?"

"How's Spock doing?"

"Better than you," McCoy counters. "You and your goddamn allergies, Jim. How you made it past childhood is a mystery to me, honestly."

"Wait, I'm allergic to this stuff and you knew?" He manages to muster a little righteous indignation.

"You're not strictly allergic."

"I'm not strictly your friend anymore, either."

"Okay," McCoy says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. "You're both done with the gas, here comes the water-based solution."

"Wait! What the fuck?" Jim hollers as ice cold liquid rains down upon him from all angles. The gas is sucked out of the vents, replaced by normal air, but he's scrabbling around on the floor of the booth, trying to find a place where the freezing water won't reach. "You said a proper shower, not water torture! Why does it have to be arctic?"

"You think this is cold? What about Spock?" McCoy taunts. "He's from a desert planet and he's not crying like a baby."

"I am _not_ crying."

"Tell that to the camera."

Jim's teeth are chattering but he forces himself to smirk. "Are you checking me out?"

McCoy just laughs and cuts the connection again. Shivering, Jim manages to push himself to his feet just as the deluge ceases. He's tingling all over, dizzy and half-blinded by the gas. Somehow, he manages to open the door and tumble out into the next cubicle, the clean side. The ship's normal temperature is almost tropical by comparison and he dries and dresses quickly, blond hair water-dark and dripping onto the collar of the loose scrubs McCoy has slipped through the hermetically sealed chute.

Looking up, he sees Spock turn at the same time, his image crisp and undistorted by the perfectly manufactured transparent aluminium. The dark grey scrubs hang off his lanky frame worse than Jim's and his hair is sticking up every which way from the rough towelling it's obviously been given. For the first time, Jim buys the fact that there's only a year or two separating them. Spock looks a bit lost without his uniform.

"At least the worst is over," he tells Spock, who can obviously hear him judging by the quirked eyebrow.

McCoy appears along their shared frontage, a tray bearing two tumblers in his hands. With a bit of juggling, he manages to get one through the seal into each cubicle. "Drink up," he orders gruffly.

Jim picks his up and winces at the bland looking slurry. "What is it?"

"Shut up and drink it!" McCoy shoots a slightly abashed look in Spock's direction. "Sir," he adds for good measure.

Without further ado, Spock downs his, and never one to be left out of a drinking game, Jim follows suit. Almost instantly, he knows it was a bad idea. They turn to look at each other and Spock's eyes widen.

"Behind you," McCoy tells them helpfully.

Both of them sprint for the appropriate receptacle and obediently empty their stomachs. Cold, shaking and utterly wretched, Jim rinses his mouth and turns to look daggers at McCoy. Spock is still leaning on his own basin, head hanging, knuckles green from how tightly he's gripping the sides.

"I hate you," Jim whispers with feeling.

"You'd rather die a horrible death from radiation poisoning?"

"Maybe."

"Angels of mercy, give me strength!" McCoy rolls his eyes, then turns to his right. "You okay, Spock?"

"Suboptimal," Spock replies after a moment's pause, and his voice has never sounded quite so strained.

McCoy is quick to cross to his work station, lips pursed, to review the Commander's vitals. "Hmm," he says after a moment. "Bradycardia, tachypnoea and a little hypothermia." The frown deepens. "This procedure is standard protocol for your level of exposure. It's been tested on Vulcans and humans, I'm not sure why it's affecting you like this."

"As you are well aware," Spock manages hoarsely, "I am neither Vulcan nor human, but both."

"You think this is a side-effect of your hybrid physiology?"

"No other logical explanation is forthcoming," he whispers, swaying slightly before the basin.

McCoy shoots Jim a worried glance and takes a seat behind his terminal, fingers flying across the surface. A little concerned himself, now, Jim pushes off from the wall and crosses to stand at Spock's side of his own cubicle. The Vulcan is busy washing his face. Jim watches the shake in his hands with growing unease.

"Respiratory imbalance?" McCoy asks himself. "No, that doesn't fit. Circulatory compromise? Perhaps a vasodilatory effect of the PDNC? But that doesn't explain the ... wait!" The doctor rises to half-standing behind the terminal and attacks it with renewed fervour. "It's metabolic, all right. How bizarre."

"I am feeling strangely disorientated, doctor."

"Hang in there, Spock, I'm going to need you to hypo yourself." McCoy is rapidly selecting several compatible substances from the medical inventory and adding them to a capsule. He slaps it into place with a flick of his wrist and actually jogs to the chute. The jogging makes Jim nervous.

"I've programmed it for point oh five mics," McCoy explains as Spock makes unsteady progress towards the hypo. "We can dose you again every half hour as needed to a maximum of point two mics."

"Understood."

Spock reaches out with trembling hands and grasps the hypo. Jim finds himself with both fists pressed against the divider, itching to help. Spock looks like shit. All traces of green summoned by the intense cold have been banished. He's white as a sheet and perspiring lightly. The Commander presses the hypo to his neck with a hiss and then slips it into the pocket of his scrubs. His breathing eases a little but nothing else changes.

"Bones?" Jim queries anxiously, keeping his eyes on Spock who's leaning against the chute.

"Give it time."

Jim works his way along the wall until he's level with Spock, who raises his head just enough that the struggle to suppress his emotional response to the situation is clear as day. His own discomfort momentarily forgotten, Jim catches that pained gaze and holds it.

"You okay?"

"I have experienced more satisfactory states of being."

Jim fidgets. "Anything I can do?"

The Commander glances at McCoy. "A level of privacy would be welcome," he admits, lowering himself gingerly to the cot.

"Vitals stabilizing," McCoy summarizes. "I don't see why I can't leave you two alone. I'll be in my office next door. Buzz if you need anything, but the alarms will sound if the hobgoblin needs me."

With a press of a button, the doctor opaques the observation glass.

Conscious of Spock's desire to be unobserved, Jim puts his weight against his own cot in an attempt to shift it to the other side of his cubicle. The rooms are mirror images of each other, the beds placed close for companionship. Behind him, he hears a rustle of material and turns in time to see Spock curl in on himself. The Commander rolls on his side, facing away, his knees tucked to his chest.

"Do you want ..." Jim starts, thoroughly unsure.

"Conversation would be a useful distraction," Spock says tightly. "I must remain alert until such time as we are able to resolve the _Tat'sar_ situation."

"All right, then." Jim aborts his furniture shuffling, suddenly feeling his own aching gut again, his own itchy eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I have no preference."

It's remarkably unspecific for a Vulcan, and clearly indicates Spock's level of distress.

"Okay, um, did you hear about the experiment Scotty has going in Engineering?"

"I am unaware of any current experiments in Engineering." Spock reaches and pulls the blanket over himself, huddling into it. Jim notices he's tucked it tight under his chin.

"Scotty has this theory that we can add at least another point six to our warp capacity if we modify the nacelle buffers using an organic matrix rather than the synthetic standard issue." Jim shakes his head. "Seriously, he's wasted in maintenance."

"You believe there is merit in his hypothesis?"

Jim can hear Spock's teeth chattering but doesn't comment on it. "The preliminary figures look good," he allows. "The trick will be getting Captain Taylor to approve a small scale modification in order to test it." He shrugs in the near darkness. "I mean, I know we're not a science vessel, but you can't tell me another point six to our warp wouldn't be really useful from time to time."

"No," Spock coughs. "I can not."

Concern overwhelming the policy of minding his own business, Jim asks, "do you need McCoy?"

"Forward me Mr. Scott's proposal," Spock says, redirecting. "If it proves logical, I will endeavour to have a small scale test implemented during our upcoming shore leave."

"Okay, I'll do that." Jim smiles to himself. "Scotty's not going to believe I said anything. He's kind of terrified of you."

"I am unaware of ever having given Mr. Scott reason to fear me."

"It's not fear, exactly," Jim muses, letting his head fall back against the partition that divides them. "More like hero worship."

Spock's blanket shrouded form shifts slightly. "You are mocking me."

Jim whips around to stare at the back of Spock's head. "No, I'm really not. Scotty respects you."

There are a few moments of uncomfortable silence where he figures Spock isn't going to reply, but then, that quiet baritone voice filters through the transparent aluminium. "And you, Jim?"

Kirk feels something lodge in his throat. For a moment, he thinks he's going to be sick again, but it passes. "Yeah, and me."

Spock lies unnaturally still, somehow managing to suppress his tremors. "I was ..."

"Oblivious," Jim supplies for him. "Don't sweat it, we're just overly emotional humans, remember? I know you're not aware of it, probably don't even like it, but it does us a lot of good to have someone to look up to, something to aspire to."

"This is a surprisingly complex revelation," Spock admits, sounding the slightest bit unsure, "and a significant responsibility."

"It doesn't change anything," Jim argues. "You're still the same you, still doing the same job." He leans into the divider a little more, trying to catch a glimpse of Spock's profile, trying to judge the impact of what he's saying. "Is it really so bad to find out what you mean to people around here?"

"Captain Taylor is the most appropriate person upon whom the crew should direct their admiration."

"Pfft!" Jim dismisses that with a wave of his hand that Spock can't see. "Taylor commands the ship, but you command the people. That's all anyone cares about. It's Taylor's ship, but we're your crew."

"I fail to see ..."

"For God's sake, Spock, I'm not playing games," Jim finds he's just the tiniest bit angry. "I'm just being honest. If I thought you were the kind of CO who needed their ego pandered to, I'd have skipped out of here a long time ago. I thought you knew that."

"I apologize if I have given offense."

"Oh, just forget it," Jim sighs, settling himself on his own cot, barefoot and still cold. "We're probably talking at cultural counterpoints."

Spock says nothing, so Jim lets his eyes slip closed, finding that the mission and the decontamination have really taken it out of him. Swirling flames and jerky, flashing images play themselves out on the inside of his eyelids, but despite it all, he finds himself drifting towards sleep.

The sound of a hypo startles him back to wakefulness. Spock's hand falls to his side again.

"Starting to wear off?"

"It would seem so."

"Must be hard," Jim muses, "being so different." Realizing this could be a touchy subject, he scrambles to clarify. "What I'm saying is, I don't know how you do it. You just stepped into that booth, swallowed that awful shit and never hesitated. Thanks to my allergies, I've got more problems choosing a soda than you seem to have putting your life in McCoy's hands."

"For all his comments to the contrary, I do not believe the doctor wishes me harm," Spock says, sounding a little more together after his second dose.

"Still, that takes trust."

"I have not given the matter much thought. However, I believe you are correct." Spock sounds a little surprised and Jim wishes he had an expression to go on. "I do, indeed, trust doctor McCoy."

"Well, that's good," he says, wishing away the sudden stab of jealousy.

"I also trust you, Jim."

And now he feels like a total bastard, because that's what he'd been hoping to hear. "Really?"

"I would not have assumed your survival today, otherwise. Deploying another shuttle on the basis of any other outcome would have been unjustifiable."

"It wasn't a matter of duty?"

"Duty requires that I balance the odds of success against those of failure. Without being able to surmise your team's survival, I would not have been able to justify the risk. The primary duty of any EPAS Point is to ensure a reasonable margin of safety in all field operations. My trust in you and your abilities provided an acceptable risk to benefit analysis."

"That sounds ... technical." Jim's not sure whether he's pleased or confused.

"It is really quite simple," Spock says, sounding more and more like his usual self as McCoy's drugs do their job. "Similarly, preceding our altercation with the Robii insurgents, I predicted that you would be able to disarm at least one Robi without assistance. I have occasionally observed you sparring with Security personnel in the gymnasium."

"What if I lost out? Someone could have died."

Spock turns his head then, dark eyes fathomless. "Is that not the essence of trust?"

Jim swallows. "I suppose so."

Another shiver runs through Spock's body and he settles his head back on the pillow. "Computer," he calls a little more strongly. "Request channel to Captain Taylor."

 _Request denied. The Captain is unavailable at this time._

"Request channel to the XO."

 _Processing._

There is a brief pause followed by the click of connection.

 _Harris here, Commander. What can I do for you?_

"I require the latest diplomatic updates routed to the terminal in decontamination booth alpha three." Spock's eyes may be pressed closed in discomfort, but his voice is almost a perfect approximation of his usual tone. "Please inform Captain Taylor that I am available to assist with negotiations should it be required."

 _I'll do that sir, but I thought you and Nix's crew were scheduled for at least another few hours in decontam._

"There is no reason why I cannot assist from my current location."

 _If you say so, sir._

Jim grins to himself. Apparently the XO has learned his lesson when it comes to keeping senior EPAS personnel out of the loop. The terminal in Spock's cubicle chimes promptly; another indication that Harris doesn't want to find himself on the receiving end of Vulcan disapproval again.

With a wince he can't quite hide, Spock pushes to his feet but doesn't abandon the blanket. With it huddled around his shoulders, he seats himself and taps the screen to bring it to life. From where Jim is sitting on his cot, it affords him a view of the back of Spock's head; a view which is endearingly disordered in his opinion.

"You're going to take a conference call in a decontam booth?"

Spock turns. "Is there an alternative I have overlooked?"

"Well no, but ..."

 _I can patch you through now, sir._

"Proceed," Spock acknowledges, letting the blanket slip from his shoulders and out of sight.

Jim gets up stiffly and crosses to his own terminal. His brain feels like cotton wool, but he figures he may as well make himself useful. They're in the midst of a delicate political situation and nobody is at their best right now. They need to pull together. He starts to collate all the data that's been uploaded from tricorders and ship's sensors into one neat little package.

Taylor appears within an internal communication. He looks tense. "Commander, I'm glad you've joined us. It seems things are a little more complex than we first anticipated."

Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

"The Vulcan High Council is refusing to allow a delegation of Robii diplomats to externally inspect the _Tat'sar_ in order to establish that the ship is in no way linked to the Romulan threat or the recent acts of terrorism. Captain Senekot is also continuing to deny the need for medical care aboard his ship."

Jim tuts under his breath, because really, if the Vulcan's are still quibbling about letting EPAS so much as take a look at the hull, what makes Taylor think they're going to welcome the Robii with open arms?

"Perhaps a mutually satisfactory compromise can be reached," Spock offers, visibly suppressing his tremors. "Might I speak with the High Council?"

Taylor waves a hand expansively. "Be my guest."

The screen blanks to the EPAS logo while the communications are rerouted. Jim knows he has only seconds to say what he wants to say, perhaps not even that long. He knocks on the divider to get Spock's attention.

"We have to get aboard the _Tat'sar_ ," he says urgently, "and ideally one Robi to shut them up."

Spock is pale, his hair wild, but his eyes are sharp. "Captain Senekot will never agree to such terms."

"Then we have to find a reason that the Vulcan High Council will."

The terminal bleeps its five second warning and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Can you be more specific?"

Jim raises a finger as he turns back to his terminal. "Leave it with me," he promises, accessing the Federation Legal Database.

Spock's face flickers into a momentary frown before he has to turn to face the six senior Vulcans that appear on his screen. "Honoured members of the Council," he acknowledges.

Sarek leans forward slightly, involuntarily. "You are injured?"

"A precautionary measure only," Spock corrects him, the inclination of his head taking in his current state of disarray and unusual attire.

"Commander," one of the other Vulcans redirects. The intuitive screen zooms in on her silver-haired features. "Can EPAS confirm the thermonuclear nature of the explosions detonated on the fourth planet of the Robicon system?"

"We can," Spock says firmly. "Preliminary readings are being made available for your records. The more comprehensive report will follow once sufficient resources can be reallocated from our humanitarian efforts at the scene of the attack."

"Commander, can you explain why the Robicon Council saw fit to scan a Vulcan science vessel, when that vessel has diplomatic immunity and has expressly stated that no scans are to take place?"

"Robicon IV is not a member of the Federation," Spock counters, "and is thus not bound by the rules of our diplomacy."

Silence among the Council is tacit acknowledgement.

"Spock, that does not explain how the _Stalwart_ obtained its own readings," Sarek presses.

"There was an instrumentation malfunction that resulted in minimal data feedback being recorded from certain sensor wavelengths only," Spock regurgitates the same story he had fed them earlier that day. "Regardless, the fact remains that we are aware of the need for medical aid aboard the _Tat'sar_ , and you have yet to offer a viable explanation as to why you have not taken advantage of EPAS facilities and expertise."

"It is a Vulcan matter," the same elderly council member says quickly, earning herself a curious glance from Sarek.

Spock's eyes shift to one corner of his screen as Jim pumps his fist in triumph and pipes him a highlighted section of the Federation Treaty.

"And yet, the people in question are not all Vulcan," Spock says reasonably, his eyes flicking side to side as he scans the document. "This results in a forfeiture of diplomatic immunity."

"You are referring to clause epsilon delta five nine point six three," Sarek clarifies, being well versed in all current diplomatic treaties. "It does not require Vulcan to relinquish the _Tat'sar's_ cargo to Federation agents."

"No, it does not," Spock agrees, pausing to glare at Jim who is wildly gesticulating at himself, the sickbay and in the general direction of the Vulcan ship. "However, the treaty clearly stipulates that representatives of the Federation have a duty of care to all citizens, a duty which overrides basic diplomatic immunity. Unless you can cite a higher regulation preventing EPAS intervention on board the _Tat'sar_ , we are duty bound to assure ourselves of her passengers' well-being."

"Unacceptable," the elderly Vulcan states firmly.

"With all due respect, Madam Councillor, I do not understand your objection."

"It is not your place to understand, simply to obey."

Spock straightens slightly, throwing off whatever pain might be lingering from his reaction to decontam. "I am a Federation officer, Madam. I will obey every legal order passed down through the chain of command. At such time as I am expressly forbidden to follow the dictates of the Federation treaty, I will be sure to abide by your request and leave the _Tat'sar_ and her living cargo in peace. Until such time, it is my duty to inform you that a two-person inspection team will prepare to board."

The Council exchange meaningful glances. Of them all, Sarek is the only one whose expression hints at confusion. "Spock, can this not wait?"

Spock allows himself no expression. "Even if I could in conscience delay the delivery of medical aid to those aboard the _Tat'sar_ , I doubt the Robicon Council will accept anything other than immediate confirmation of the ship's peaceful intent."

"It is plain to see the _Tat'sar_ is a Vulcan ship," a new Council member breaks in.

"To those who have never before compared the two, Vulcan and Romulan technology is similar in many ways," Spock reminds them. "With the additionally incriminating presence of the energy signature, the burden of proof clearly lies with Vulcan."

"We acknowledge no energy signature," the female councilor says sternly, at her Vulcan best.

"Yet it has been detected by both EPAS and Robii sensors." There is a tinge of sarcasm in Spock's tone now, and Jim wonders if he is tiring of all the political posturing. "I anticipate you will find it problematic to appease the Robicon Council with anything other than this show of faith."

Sarek leans forward, hands on the council table. "What do you suggest?"

"Allow one Robi representative to accompany the EPAS assessment team."

"No," the Council says immediately, in unison.

Jim screws his nose up in frustration. That was a pretty adamant refusal, and from the slight hint of expression on Spock's face, he realizes. The best they can hope for now is that an external view of the ship will satisfy the Robi officials.

"Unless you wish to create a major diplomatic incident, I suggest you submit to an alternative method of reassuring the Robi," Spock advises. "I doubt their trust in EPAS is sufficient that our word alone will suffice."

The Vulcan Council glare at each other silently, then at Spock, then at each other again. The tension is self-evident, even if their faces are largely blank. Spock waits expectantly, outwardly calm, even though Jim can see he is struggling a little more for each breath. His ribs retract with each inhalation, the accessory muscles working hard. If this call doesn't end soon, they're going to see just how sick Spock really is, or else he's going to have to use the hypo. Either option is an admission of weakness Spock can't afford if he wants to maintain the upper hand in this negotiation. Jim finds himself taking even, measured breaths as though that might somehow assist Spock to do the same.

"An external visual assessment at an orbit of five hundred klicks may provide the reassurance they seek," Spock suggests, the slightest hint of a wheeze in his voice.

Sarek's eyes narrow but he nods. "We shall discuss the possibility. In the meantime, submit your candidates for the EPAS inspection team for our review." He glances pointedly off-screen, to where Jim is sitting, out of view and unacknowledged. "Timely and forthright resolution of this issue will be facilitated by careful selection on your behalf."

Jim is not quite sure whether he's just been handed the seal of approval or been banned, or even if Ambassador Sarek could possibly infer who it is that exists just out of his line of sight.

Spock inclines his head. "Understood."

Sarek nods in return. "Until we speak again."

"Live long and prosper," Spock says correctly.

"Peace and long life."

The connection blips out of existence and Spock slumps slightly even as Captain Taylor appears on the screen. "Spock, the Federation will never accept a two-man team as our total input into the situation!"

"I am aware," Spock manages, the light sheen of sweat on his face catching the light.

Jim glances at the chrono. Spock is ten minutes overdue for his hypo.

"We're due to make a report to the Minister for Health within the hour, how do you expect me to explain that we're sending two unarmed officers into a potentially hostile situation?"

"We have no reason to believe ... that the _Tat'sar_ in any way constitutes a threat to EPAS ... Robicon IV or the Federation as a whole." Spock is forced to break his sentence to breathe, and damn if Taylor doesn't even notice.

"Still, Spock! Two people? Is that the best you could do?"

Jim clenches his hands into fists. His swollen lip stings anew as he presses it tight in an effort to bite back his angry retort. The team is more than Taylor has managed in the entire time since the initial discovery.

"Should anything untoward be detected by the team," Spock swallows and takes a quick breath, "it will be grounds for further Federation intervention."

Beneath the terminal, Spock's legs have begun to tremble and Jim finds himself whispering under his breath, urging Taylor to shut up and cut the connection, to accept the logic of what Spock has orchestrated.

Thankfully, Taylor seems to absorb that in a positive light. "I can probably sell that to the Minister. Good work, Commander. When are you out of decontam? It goes without saying that I want you on the away team."

"Doctor McCoy estimates only hours," Spock says tightly.

"Keep me informed, Taylor out."

The screen is barely blank before Jim is out of his seat, paging McCoy, slamming his fist into the buzzer just as Spock fumbles the hypo with shaking hands. The instrument drops to the floor with a metallic tinkle.

"Dammit, Bones! Get in here!"

He appears almost immediately, too quickly to have been summoned by Jim, doubtless alerted to Spock's distress through the sensors in the room. He's pulling on the first layer of his radiation suit when Jim knocks on the aluminium to get his attention.

"Just let me through!" he gestures at the partition between their rooms. "I'm already exposed, so minimal additional risk."

McCoy hesitates, one leg already in the suit.

"Bones!"

"All right, all right!" the doctor capitulates, his worried frown fixed on Spock, who is clearly experiencing some serious vertigo as he bends to retrieve the fallen hypo. "Just remember, point oh five mics, no more!"

"Got it," Jim calls, already moving to the place where the partition is drawing apart, folding back into the walls with a barely audible hiss. He's through before the gap is really wide enough, and down on his knees in front of Spock. He gets the hypo in his hands and pressed against Spock's neck, but forces himself to pause, to check the dose, just to be sure. Point oh five mics. He thumbs the control and a muted hiss precedes Spock's almost imperceptible flinch.

Jim slaps the hypo down on the terminal and pushes Spock gently back into his seat. "Easy, Commander."

He looks terrible, eyes pressed tightly closed, lips parted as he works for every breath. His eyelids are tinged blue in the harsh sickbay lights, his hair sticking to his brow. Jim has him by both arms, and blessedly, the shaking is already easing. A few more breaths and Spock's face relaxes a degree or two.

"Better?" he asks softly, the worry plain in his voice.

"Yes."

It's only a whisper, but Jim can feel sudden tension under his hands and abruptly lets go. He backs across their newly combined cubicle until he can sit on his own cot, watching Spock in profile. Vulcan privacy is so important, so fundamental. It might be strange to think that someone as outgoing as Jim understands that need, but he does. There are parts of his own life, parts of himself that he likes kept apart; things that are his and his alone.

"You're not going to be able to go on that team," Jim tells him, even if it does sound like a question.

"No," Spock agrees, forcing his eyes open and turning slightly to face Jim's side of the room. "That seems unlikely."

"Unlikely?" McCoy growls. "I expressly forbid it!"

"The doctor expressly forbids it," Spock echoes, his words less clipped than usual as his eyes slip closed again.

Jim fights down a smile, because it seems Spock is a bit screwy when on a patented McCoy concoction.

Bones offers a smirk in return. "His metabolic system is unique," the doctor sounds defensive but still amused. "I haven't found anything I can use that doesn't have some side effects. Get more than point one of soraphine in him and," he gestures at Spock battling to keep his eyes open. "Better than the alternative though, you'll agree."

"I believe I shall ..." Spock makes an abortive gesture at his cot.

"Hell yes, don't let him sleep in the chair," McCoy offers as he turns and stalks back to his office. "Chiro never got that last lot of kinks out of him."

Jim gives a thumbs up to McCoy's retreating back and goes to help. Turns out that all he really needs is to be pointed in the right direction, after that there's nothing left for Jim to do except straighten the blanket over him and place the hypo on his pillow, within easy reach.

"This is unacceptable," Spock murmurs, seemingly half asleep already. "I shall endeavour to speed the process by using a light trance. You may need to strike me in order to wake me."

Jim frowns. "Strike, like hit?"

"Is there another definition?"

"Well ... no."

"Then why did you ask?"

Jim curses his split lip as another smile threatens to engulf him. "Because I'm an illogical human."

"Very true," Spock acknowledges as he rolls stiffly onto his back.

"How long do you need for this trance?"

"Efficacy is directly proportional to duration," he whispers. "However, do not permit me to remain unconscious should the _Tat'sar_ deployment be approved, or if there is an urgent communication."

"Okay."

Spock's breathing becomes deeper and more regular, his hands relax at his sides, fingertips resting lightly on the blanket. It gets to the point where all his baselines, heart rate, respiration, metabolics, sink so far that McCoy sticks his head out of his office to see what's going on. When he notices Spock flat out on the cot and Jim sitting on the edge of his own, just watching, the doctor shakes his head and mutters something about crazy Vulcan voodoo before disappearing again.

Alone in the new silence, Jim can't deny his own fatigue. Lying down on his own cot, curled up on his side, he promises himself a few minutes and lets his eyes slip closed.

  
-:-

  
"Spock?"

Jim tries shaking him a little harder. It seems impossible that anyone could sleep through someone shouting at them and almost rolling them out of bed, but the Commander is managing. With an uncertain glance at McCoy who mimes a decent backhand, Jim slaps Spock lightly across the face. When it garners no response, he does it again, this time hard enough to leave his palm tingling.

Spock's eyes snap open. "Lieutenant Kirk."

"Commander," Jim replies, feeling unaccountably awkward. "You did say to ..."

"Yes," he interrupts, sitting upright so quickly that Jim is forced to spring back. "Quite so."

"The Vulcan High Council have approved both the EPAS inspection and an orbital observation by the Robicon government," Jim informs him. "I would have woken you for the call, but it was just a transmission, not a comm."

"Very well," Spock nods, then directs a steady gaze in McCoy's direction. "My uniform, doctor?"

"Not going to happen," he drawls. "You're not beaming anywhere for at least another twelve hours. You've got enough soraphine in your system to flatten a donkey. I'm clearing you for light duties only."

"You do understand the difficulty inherent in this proscription?"

"I do," McCoy nods, "but I won't put political expediency ahead of my crew. You of all people should understand that."

They lock eyes for a few moments, but Spock nods his acceptance sooner rather than later. "In that case," he turns to Jim, "Lieutenant Kirk will take my place on the away team."

Jim actually finds it relatively easy to subsume his response to Spock's confidence. It sits beneath the surging tumult of curiosity, suspicion and urgency he feels about the _Tat'sar_ in general. Beaming across is a great privilege and an even bigger responsibility, but riding high on a bare hour's sleep, Jim feels up for anything.

McCoy scans him twice with the tricorder, seeming almost disappointed when his rad levels are negligible.

-:-

 

It takes Senekot a full minute to find something appropriate to say when he arrives in the transporter room. The repressed anger in him is plain to see and Jim finds himself wondering if Vulcans consider barely concealed rage an example of adequate control. For all that Spock is only half Vulcan, he would never walk around radiating this kind of violence. When Jim takes his place on the pad in front of the Vulcan captain, he can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Every instinct he has is warning him to keep Senekot in his line of sight.

Spock stands with Chapel at the transporter controls while Scotty gets a lock. It's Jim and Christine beaming across. Chapel might not be the most senior in rank, but with Bones tied up overseeing the Robicon bombing, Christine would be anyone's natural choice as his replacement. She's got years of field experience backed by a calm and compassionate nature. Jim knows he's the highest ranking Point on the ship next to Spock, but his instincts tell him it's actually knowledge of Vulcan language that's earned him the assignment. Spock chose a private moment in the turbolift to imply he should listen, and listen very carefully.

Jim manages to catch the Commander's eye moments before Scotty calls ready. He gives a slight nod. Whatever is going on over there, Jim intends to find out what it is.

"Energize," he tells Scotty, and silver sparks fill his vision.

He comes back to himself aboard the _Tat'sar_ and already hates wearing his EVA suit. Standard procedure, but the air is about twenty degrees warmer than on the _Stalwart_ , thin and instantly drying to the eyes. When he steps off the pad, it's clear the gravity is higher, too.

Senekot pauses beside them, staring straight ahead as though he can't bring himself to look upon them. "Follow me."

"Happy to," Jim smiles widely, inwardly wondering what's pushing him to provoke a man with twice his strength. Christine jabs him in the ribs with her elbow as they fall into step, meaning that she's wondering the same thing. He resolves to tone it down a little. As much as Senekot aggravates him, they have work to do here.

"I will show you to one of our larger laboratories," Senekot informs them. "I have arranged for all our guests to congregate there, as assessing them in their individual quarters is inefficient."

Jim is saved from replying when one of Senekot's underlings approaches and respectfully makes a report. It's poor form to wear a UT amongst allies, but Jim doesn't need it. _All is prepared_ , the younger Vulcan says. Jim turns the phrase over in his mind, wondering if and how it applies to the ship's living cargo.

Senekot marches along smart white corridors that would make the _Stalwart's_ earthy hued walls look dirty by comparison. Jim follows alongside Christine, with the two Vulcan scientists bringing up the rear. It smacks of containing them, shepherding them, and he has to fight down an almost overwhelming urge to break sideways into a random corridor, just to see what they do.

"We have arrived," Senekot informs them, coming to an abrupt halt facing a room of milling people.

Jim and Chris nod their thanks and step into the laboratory. All eyes are suddenly trained on them. Some sit under orderly fringes, deep and dark and as Vulcan as the _Tat'sar's_ crew. Others are blue, grey, green and brown; mostly human, with one Orion Jim can see and something that looks like a Klingon but couldn't possibly be.

"If I could have your attention?" Jim calls, putting as much reassurance into his voice as he can, because these people look tense. "I'm Jim Kirk and this is Chris Chapel, we're from EPAS. For those of you who aren't from around here, that's the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service. We operate as an adjunct to the United Federation of Sentient Planets, and we're here to offer you all some medical assistance, if you need it."

Several people in the room exchange glances. It's not that which makes Jim pause, it's the strange urgency, the almost disbelieving energy in their faces when they turn back to look at him.

"You are James Tiberius Kirk?" one of them calls, pushing to his feet.

To Jim's surprise, the speaker is a Vulcan. He's lean but not as tall as most, and not dressed as Jim is accustomed to seeing Vulcan's dress when out of uniform. Instead, this young man stands at the fore of the group in grey and blue clothes of a distinctly human flavour. Necessity tends to override cultural considerations however, and casting around the room, Jim notices that many of them are dressed in a mishmash of what might have been to hand as a group. Still, the young Vulcan naturally draws Jim's attention.

"Yeah, I'm Jim Kirk," he confirms, a little weirded out, "and you are?"

"My full name would be unpronounceable," is the dignified reply, though it is followed by, "you may call me Eli."

"Okay then, Eli," Jim says with a friendly smile, "you know of anyone here who could use a medic?" He points his thumb at Chapel, who obediently turns to demonstrate the extensive medkit slung over her shoulder.

Eli inclines his head, giving Jim a surge of deja vu. "Indeed, I do. You have our thanks."

"Right then," Jim nods. "All the minor stuff comes to me, anything more serious than cuts and abrasions to Chapel."

The room slowly divides into two groups, Jim's far larger. The gentle milling gives him a chance to do a rough head count, and as he instinctively knew; they're at least six people short. He crosses to where Chris is setting up her kit, ostensibly to steal a few supplies.

"How's your math?" he asks in an undertone.

"Hmm," she nods, passing him her spare dermal regenerator. "We're a little light on."

Jim purses his lips. "Okay, let's treat these people first, but it's time for your best bedside manner," he glances at the collar of her field blacks. "Couldn't hurt to show a little cleavage, you know. It's hot like a furnace in here, anyway."

She gives him a withering look, but it's belied by the laughter in her eyes. "Most of them are Vulcan, Jim. I doubt they'd be influenced by anything that gets you off."

With a parting punch to her shoulder, Jim gathers up his supplies and makes his way back over to his bench. "Okay!" he grins at the head of the line. "What have you got for me?"

"Um, I've got some burns, sir," a young human steps up, shrugging out of his shirt to reveal some pretty nasty blisters along his spine.

Jim passes the medical tricorder over the mess and raises his eyebrows when it tells him that several burns treatments have already been performed. The dermal signature is slightly off though, like it was done by someone with a theoretical knowledge of what should happen, but none of the expertise to heal something this delicate. He files that information away for future use.

"These look like phaser burns," Jim notes aloud, disinfecting his hands under UV and gently touching the pink edges of healing skin.

"Aye, sir," his patient nods, suddenly looking a little anxious.

"You're enlisted?" Jim asks, keeping his eyes focused on the wound, hoping it seems his interest in the boy's origins is merely bedside chatter.

"Starfleet, sir. I'm an Ensign in Communications."

"You don't have to 'sir' me, you know. I might be a Lieutenant, but the chain of command is a little hazy. What's your ship?"

" _Enterprise_ , sir."

Jim's hands falter on the dermal regenerator, forcing him to carefully recalibrate it to the young Ensign's own stage of healing. "She's a good ship," he manages finally, rather impressed with the lack of emotion in his voice.

"Aye, sir," the boy grins over his shoulder before Jim sets to work. "The very best, sir."

Jim nods and glances over to see if Chapel has heard. There hasn't been a ship called _Enterprise_ since she crashed into the stormy seas of Vega. He ought to know.

  
-:-

  
"Commander?"

Spock turns to see Ashe Ho being wheeled into the room by doctor McCoy. He swivels his chair but does not stand as he would normally do. Remaining seated places him eye to eye with the Lieutenant; a small concession, but one that is well received judging by the slight flush that rises on her cheeks. He does not envy such blatant emotional indicators.

"Lieutenant Ho?"

"I ordered some more scans of the _Tat'sar_ and I think you should see the results." She holds out a data chip between two fingers, gripping it so that he does not have to touch her skin to retrieve it.

Spock allows his voice to grow stern. "We are under strict orders not to scan the Vulcan vessel."

"Good thing we didn't, then," Ashe pulls half her face into a grin, the rest just twitches. "Those are from the Robii scout ship currently observing the _Tat'sar_ from orbit."

He plucks the chip from her hand but keeps it between them. "An interesting arrangement."

"It turns out Uhura made quite an impression on the Undersecretary of Defense when she saved his life."

Spock relaxes slightly, amusement playing about the edges of his consciousness. "Lieutenant Uhura does possess that capacity."

"I think you and Jim are wrong about the gravitational signature," his former Point One continues, using her good arm to propel the chair a few inches closer. "The anomaly is present throughout the entire ship, not just the warp drive or weapons systems."

Spock slips the chip into a reader and skims the data. "Preliminary analysis suggests you are correct," he tells her, the waveforms bathing his face in different colored lights.

  
-:-

  
 _Commander Spock to Lieutenant Kirk._

Jim thumbs his collar tab. "Kirk here. What can I do for you, sir?"

 _Status report._

Jim casts his eyes around the room. "Fifteen casualties attended to, nothing requiring transfer to sick bay." He pauses, knowing he allowed a little disappointment and irritation to seep into his voice, because dammit, without something concrete he's got no grounds for recommending Starfleet involvement. "We have another two undergoing deep knitting on minor fractures."

 _The remaining passengers require no medical assistance?_

Jim lowers his voice and speaks directly into the mic. "The remaining passengers are nowhere to be seen."

There is a pause over the comm as Spock digests this.

 _Confirming the total count sighted at seventeen persons?_

"Seventeen confirmed." Jim lowers his hand and grimaces. "Permission to scan the ship?"

 _Denied,_ comes Spock's swift reply. _Await orders._

"Spock, one or two of those we've treated are assigned to the _Enterprise_ ," Jim says urgently. "As in, currently assigned, and uh, there's a Klingon here."

Another long pause sails over the comm.

 _Confirm ship designation NCC1701 and presence of race hostile to the Federation._

"Ship confirmed, but the Klingon says he's on our side," Jim shrugs at Christine, who looks just as flummoxed as he feels. "Apparently he serves aboard the Enterprise, too."

  
-:-

  
"That doesn't make sense," Ashe frowns, then unsteadily turns to glare up at McCoy, too. "None of that makes sense!"

"I've never heard of a Klingon defector," the doctor muses. "With so much hostility in Klingon space recently that's the kind of thing the Federation would be shouting from the rooftops, if it were true."

"More to the point," Spock says distantly, eyes fixed on the energy projections displayed on the terminal, "the _USS Enterprise_ was destroyed almost two years ago. According to Starfleet records, all previously serving crew have been reassigned or discharged from active service."

"How can they be assigned to a ship that doesn't exist?" McCoy exclaims, making crazy eyes.

Spock glances from the energy readings to the viewport encompassing the _Tat'sar_ and back again. "It is imperative that we find grounds for further investigation."

"Well, don't tell me, man! Tell Jim!" McCoy blusters, pointing at the comm switch.

  
-:-

  
 _Lieutenant Kirk?_

Spock's deep voice fills the earbud in his right ear. Jim crams a finger in after it, because for some reason the signal isn't coming through as loudly as it usually does.

"Kirk here."

 _There are several anomalies associated with your visit to the Tat'sar._

"You don't say," he half-laughs into his collar mic, because really, what a talent for understatement. "All regulations in order?" He finds himself choosing his words carefully, partly due to the milling crowd of people, but mostly because of the two Vulcan scientists Senekot has left to 'provide for their needs.' Jim feels like he's under lock and key, which is a very unnerving sensation at the hands of Vulcans, Earth's oldest alien allies.

 _Doctor McCoy suggests medical clause gamma delta zero point nine,_ Spock pauses. _Mental trauma requiring experienced counselling._

Jim turns swiftly away, hiding his lips from view behind Christine and getting as far from the two Vulcan guards at the door as possible. "I'll see your mental trauma and raise you stark raving crazy," he murmurs in an undertone, trusting EPAS technology to transmit loud and clear. "Delusional, even."

 _Are any Vulcans affected? Expediency in this matter would be facilitated within the Vulcan High Council if the Federation intercession was on behalf of a Vulcan citizen._

"Actually, most of the Vulcan's haven't said a word, and what they have said seems deliberately vague. I'm not getting any personal history from them worth writing home about." Jim sneaks a glance at Eli. "Although one of them is a bit handsy."

 _Vulcans do not customarily exchange the same degree of information on first meeting as do humans. Nor are they remotely 'handsy.'_

"Spock," Jim sighs into his mic, "I learned more about you at that first stupid briefing than I have with an hour in this room. Something's keeping them quiet, especially him, but I can't prove anything ..."

The lightest of touches on his shoulder cuts him off halfway through. He turns to find the subject of his conversation just withdrawing his hand. Jim stares at him, a heavy frown of confusion on his face. Vulcan's really don't touch.

Eli regards him calmly. "The people will not talk to you."

Jim thumbs his tab again. "Await my further," he says, then lets his hand fall. "Oh yeah, why is that?"

"Fear," Eli replies easily, "fear and logic."

"The two don't normally go together in my experience."

The edges of a smile play around Eli's mouth. "Unless I am gravely mistaken, your experience with Vulcans is somewhat limited, Lieutenant Kirk."

Jim's eyes rake over the other man's face, searching among the slightly brownish black hair, the pointed ears, the upswept brows to confirm the growing suspicion that he is a wolf in sheep's clothing; a Romulan in Vulcan guise.

"I would advise you to seek the missing six Elders," Eli tells him, his young face growing serious again. "It is, perhaps, an unpolitic course of action but it will provide answers, or at least the beginnings of answers."

"The Elders?" Jim repeats, not because he thinks Eli is going to elaborate, but because it gives him a moment to think before their very unusual conversation is over.

"Captain Senekot will know to whom you are referring." Eli straightens slightly and shocks Jim by holding out a hand. "It has been most pleasant to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant."

Hesitantly, beginning to wonder if perhaps there _is_ some kind of hallucinogen at work - something that has now had long enough to affect him, also - Jim grips the proffered hand and shakes it firmly before releasing it. "Yeah, fantastic."

Eli turns and calmly rejoins the mixed group of Vulcans and humans by the far wall. Jim stares after him for a few seconds, his mind in turmoil.

"Spock?" he says finally, thumbing his comm. "I think I have an opening."

 _Do nothing without consultation._

"I've got to run with this," Jim shakes his head, approaching one of their Vulcan 'helpers.'

 _We are an emergency medical service,_ Spock reminds him firmly. _No more._

"Trust me on this."

 _Lieutenant Kirk, beam back to discuss your proposed course of action._

"I can't do that, sir."

  
-:-

  
Two hours later, Jim sits, aching in every muscle before a vidscreen in McCoy's office. Admiral Christopher Pike is glaring at him from it's pristine surface. It doesn't help that Jim knows he fucked up, knows it to his marrow, but still feels like he did the right thing. It makes it very hard to look appropriately contrite.

"Kirk, do you have any idea, _any at all_ , the kind of bureaucratic shitstorm you've just created?" Pike demands. "Of all the stupid, knuckle-headed things you could have chosen to do since you got here, you had to pick this one."

"If it helps, I'm sorry, sir."

"It doesn't help at all because I can see you're lying!" Pike bellows, red in the face and straining against the confines of his chair. "God _damn_ it, Jim! Do you even know how many clauses of the Federation Treaty you've violated?"

"I think maybe seven."

"At least!"

"Admiral, sir," Jim tries calmly, licking his lips as he gathers his thoughts. "There are people aboard that ship who needed our help. There are still people aboard it who might be unwilling prisoners. What did you want me to do?"

Pike slams his palm down on his desk hard enough to make his stylus jump. "Follow protocol! You can't just wing it all the time, Jim. You can't just leap in blindly with both feet and trust that everything will work out, because it usually doesn't. You're the Divisional Point One now, try to act like it! There's this little thing called diplomacy we usually like to try within the Federation; a small consideration we call sovereign rights!"

"The sovereign right to hold people against their will?" Jim counters hotly. "To deny them proper medical aid? To scare them so badly they won't even talk about what they're doing on that ship in the first place? To mess with their memories so they're not even making sense?"

"Not your place!" Pike shouts, enunciating each word separately so they sound like a sentence in their own right.

The two men stare at each other across lightyears, both keyed up, both visibly struggling to remain professional. Finally, Pike bites his lip and presses his eyes closed, head turned to the side as he collects himself.

"You're going to give me a full report. You're going to include as detailed an account as you can of everything that was said and everything that you saw aboard the _Tat'sar_. You're going write it up, then file it in triplicate and you're going to do it within the next sixty minutes because I've got the entire Federation Council breathing down my neck over this one." Pike opens his eyes and pins Jim with a fierce expression. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," he manages, teeth gritted.

"Right," Pike sighs heavily. "Now, between you and me, who are they holding and what's the situation?"

Jim scoots forward until he's sitting on the edge of his chair. "Right, it went like this ..."

  
-:-

  
Jim's request to see the additional passengers aboard the ship certainly gets a reaction, just not the one he is anticipating. The Vulcan he addresses actually looks frightened for a moment. It is almost imperceptible, but Jim hasn't made a hobby out of interpreting the slightest raise of Spock's eyebrow for nothing. Also, fear is a pretty difficult emotion to mask.

Senekot chooses that very moment to reappear, tall and calm and utterly Vulcan in his disdain for Jim's insistent request to see these so-called 'Elders' he was informed were aboard. The Vulcan captain's eyes flick to where Eli has his back turned; an instinctive and very telling response.

"No," he is told, as though that could possibly be the end of it.

"Why not?" Jim tries to be reasonable, even though some instinct is telling him that this is it; this is the crux of the mystery of the _Tat'sar_. "You've let us see the others, why not all of them?"

Senekot turns cold, fathomless eyes upon him. "They are dead."

"Dead how?" Jim feels Christine join him and is thankful for her presence by his shoulder.

"That is a Vulcan matter."

"It's an EPAS matter according to Federation Treaty."

"I think you will find that the Treaty only refers to living passengers aboard a vessel registered to a Federation world."

Senekot might not be smirking, but he doesn't have to. The contempt rolls off him in waves. If Jim didn't have the ESPER rating of a cabbage, he'd have sworn the feeling was leaching right into the vengeful parts of his own cerebral cortex. Senekot was actually enjoying this.

"Then I guess you won't mind showing us the bodies," he reasons, forcing a cold smile. "For our report, you understand. I'm sure you can appreciate the need for thoroughness."

Senekot's eyes narrow slightly, but that is the only betrayal of his anger. "You may access their citizenship records on our database," he deflects, gesturing to the terminal set into the laboratory wall. "I will have one of the technicians grant you permission."

The Vulcans move to comply and Jim takes the opportunity to lock eyes with Chris. He can see a world of caution in them and knows he should take her unspoken advice. His earbuds bleep, reminding him for the fifth time that he's ignoring another incoming call from his DivCO. Spock is going to be pissed.

The Vulcan tech steps back and inclines his head in invitation. Jim flexes his fingers and moves to the screen. Before him is the face of a young, auburn haired human woman. _Algebrides, Mary Kate,_ the name reads. He moves his finger across the pressure sensitive screen, flicking to the next face; a Vulcan male. The next, another Vulcan, this time female. On the third he freezes.

It can't be.

"No," he whispers, shock warring with an unexpected feeling of loss. "No way."

Before anyone can stop him, his fingers fly across the terminal, breaking through the quickly erected firewalls and plunging into the true data that lies behind the flimsy facsimile of death certificates. Jim's always had a good relationship with computers. He can smell a rat a mile away, and these notices of death frankly reek of deception.

He finds what he needs just as Senekot barks out an order to the computer and the screen goes blank. If Jim thought the captain looked dangerous before, it's nothing compared to how he looks now. Jim doesn't give him any time to formulate a response to the illegal tampering, just launches himself into a dead run, the ship schematic bright in his mind's eye. He figures he has about two or three seconds before they collect themselves and head after him, and he knows from experience that there's no way in hell he can outrun a Vulcan. Especially not on a Vulcan ship, in this gravity. The atmosphere, he can do something about, so he snaps his visor closed and enjoys the heady rush of oxygen that wells up in his face.

Feet are drumming behind him and the point between his shoulder blades starts to crawl. Vulcan's don't carry weapons, right? But he doesn't have time to think it through, because he finds himself at a door that shouldn't be on this ship. A door that's been purpose-built to withstand some pretty impressive force.

Acting on pure instinct, Jim hauls on the counter lever; and it springs open as he all but throws himself inside. He's thoroughly unprepared for the flash and burn of the high wavelength containment field. It fries his nerve endings, sends him twitching to the floor with a thud, but not before he sees what he came for.

Around the room, six people step forward tentatively, some sporting bandages, others dressed in strangely styled Starfleet uniforms. At the centre of it all stands someone familiar, a vision from his childhood, a man who's face he just saw on a forged death certificate.

The Vulcan raises one silver eyebrow. "James T. Kirk?"

"You're not dead!" he gurgles, fighting the rigors that signify the tail end of his containment field experience. "I've come to save you!"

"So I see," the man he knew as Sarek says with some irony.

Before Jim can do more than frown, he's engulfed in silver sparks and promptly disappears. He's almost thankful to be off that ship; off and with proof that Senekot is full of shit. Then he sees Bones' apoplectic face and groans.

"Of all the damn fool things to do!" McCoy is cursing, jabbing him with hypo after hypo and then gripping his hair to make Jim look him in the eye. "You're a menace, you know that?"

"You've got to send me back!" Jim cries, eyes fixing on Spock's face and not even registering the white hot rage there. "Send me back!"

"Shut your mouth!" McCoy yells. "Haven't you noticed you've been electrocuted?"

Jim struggles to his knees and then to his feet, shaking off McCoy's hands because they seem to be torn between helping him and hindering him. Half way up, he catches himself against a familiarly pressed sleeve. "Spock!" he gasps. "They've got him, they've got ..."

The Commander jerks his arm out of reach. His dark eyes are ice cold and his lips pressed tightly in disapproval. "Silence!" he whispers, and it's somehow worse than a shout could ever be. The chaos in the transporter room abruptly ceases. Chris and Bones and Ashe all pause in a loose semi-circle, their eyes wide.

Jim swallows the new-found lump in his throat.

"You disobeyed a direct order," Spock continues in an undertone. "Risked your life, damaged diplomatic relations with New Vulcan and placed Captain Taylor in a highly complex situation."

"But ..."

"You should have waited," Spock says, his perfect facade slipping. "You should have trusted me."

"I thought ..."

"No," Spock shakes his head. "You did not think if you presumed I would allow the _Tat'sar_ to hold sentient beings against their will. If you have a character flaw, Jim, it is this; you place no value on the word of others." Spock turns away, eyes on the floor, his angular face hinting at a disappointment that is overwhelming. "We spoke of trust, and yet here we stand. I am Vulcan. My word is my bond. I would not have allowed it."

Jim clenches his twitching hands at his sides. He feels about two inches tall. "I'm sorry."

"Regret is illogical," Spock locks eyes with him. "Forethought is preferable."

"What do we do now?" Jim asks softly, very aware of everyone looking on.

"Now, you will report to sickbay under doctor McCoy, where you will remain until such time as he declares you fit for duty. I must place a call to EPAS headquarters and inform the Captain of the full extent of your disobedience."

One blistering glance from Spock silences every objection on the tip of Jim's tongue. The look is directed solely at him, not visible to anyone else, and it speaks to a depth of anger that he's never seen Spock unleash. Today is not the day he wants that to change.

He manages a shaky salute and leans gratefully into McCoy's arm as Spock stalks from the transporter room, Ashe swept up in his wake.

  
-:-

  
Jim slouches back in his chair, trying to hide a degree of what he's still feeling after that confrontation.

Pike looks torn between exasperation and true anger. "You have a singular talent for pissing off your superior officers, but I still can't believe you managed to ruffle Spock like that." He sighs heavily. "You know this 'Sarek' how?"

"He was employed by Starfleet to encode the new UTs aboard the Constellation Class ships built at Riverside," Jim explains. "He's a good guy. I don't believe that bull Senekot is spinning about those people being dangerous," Jim glowers. "They're a science ship and they told me the last six were _dead_ for crying out loud!"

Pike makes a few last minute corrections to the notes he took. "Sit tight, keep your mouth shut and do whatever Spock tells you to do. I need all that in writing and I need it yesterday." The Admiral gives him one last sour look. "Oh, and please don't go accusing the Vulcans of lying, understood?"

 

 


	17. chapter 3.7

Jim is alone in his quarters when the door chime sounds. McCoy released him from sickbay and put him on short term medical leave. Apparently, the only thing stopping Captain Taylor from ordering his summary dismissal is Spock, which makes Jim feel like even more of an asshole. He keeps replaying that dressing down in his mind, listening for and finding nuances of emotion in the memory of Spock's tightly controlled voice. He's got his head in his hands, feeling vindicated and guilty at the same time.

"Enter."

The two calmly measured steps into the room can only be one person.

"Lieutenant."

Jim raises his head and pushes to his feet, ignoring the slight pang in his muscles. "Commander, sir."

The door swishes closed behind him and Spock neatly clasps his hands in the small of his back. It seems he's browbeaten McCoy into giving him back his uniform, because he's standing in it with his hair all neatly dried and combed. He tilts his head and raises that eyebrow. "Are you well?"

Jim feels all the fight go out of him in a rush, because damn, that was _not_ what he'd been expecting. "I let you down," he says by way of an answer. "I'd like to be able to say I disobeyed you because you were wrong to ask me to wait, because it was a field decision that had to be made quickly, but that would be a lie." He raises his head to find Spock watching him intently. "Truthfully? I'm just an impatient motherfucker who's not good at waiting for other people to make the right decision."

Spock presses his lips together and wanders further into the room, eyes on the floor now; his thinking face. "That is inaccurate," he says, pausing to study Jim as he speaks. "Since you have been promoted to Divisional Point One, Nix Alpha, you have never displayed overt difficulty in following my orders, until today."

Jim doesn't have an answer for that, because it's true. What the _Tat'sar_ holds is different.

Spock takes a single step closer to him, eyes still sharp with that same intensity. "Explain."

"It's not right," Jim flounders, which is something that rarely happens. Around most people he's king of the glib answer, the throwaway line. Spock is the only person he knows who can reduce him to blurting out the first thing that crosses his mind. "It's not right to keep people like that. Knowing that they were hurt, I couldn't just stand back and ..." he trails off, fighting for the logic in his own argument. "You don't turn your back on something wrong, even if you make trouble for yourself. You've got to stick up for people who can't champion themselves."

"I concur, and yet I fail to see why it rendered you incapable of following my orders." Spock speaks quickly, with perfect diction, and takes another step towards him. "Had I given you reason to believe I would not take appropriate action to ensure the safety of those aboard the _Tat'sar?_ "

Jim's heart starts hammering in his chest. It's got something to do with the mere three feet that's separating him from Spock, and something to do with the memory of those people, those poor people still being held on that ship. "No, you hadn't," he confesses, hating the tightness in his voice.

"I asked the same question of Admiral Pike," Spock admits. "We spoke at length about your actions and what disciplinary measures may be appropriate. I asked him to explain why you would act so inadvisedly, so rashly and without forethought."

"Oh yeah?" Jim feels the palms of his hands begin to perspire. "What did he say?"

Spock's eyes narrow slightly, in concentration, not malice. "He advised me to ask you."

Jim forces a shrug, throws on his best approximation of a smile. "Yeah, well, sorry to disappoint. I've got nothing to say."

He sees Spock's jaw tighten, braces himself for the words that will spell the end of his career, the dirge to his latest attempt at figuring out what to do with himself. Instead, Spock relaxes all the way from his face right down to the hands that had been clenched at his sides. Jim watches those dark eyes travel down his body, no doubt cataloging many indications of emotion; the little things that are giving him away.

"Yes," says Spock softly, his eyes now back on Jim's face. "I believe you are sorry."

With that, he turns on his heel and makes for the door.

"Wait!" Jim calls, feeling thoroughly derailed. "What now?"

Spock pauses, turning to look over his shoulder. "You remain on medical leave until further notice."

Jim waits for the door to close before leaning back into bed and awkwardly lowering himself. The hand he wipes across his brow shakes, so he rubs it absently across the fabric of his blacks, sliding up from his knee to his thigh and then back down again soothingly, like comforting a child.

  
-:-

  
Spock walks the corridors of the _Stalwart_ with a look of concentration that keeps everyone away. He is unaware of the nervous glances thrown after him, or the quiet questions exchanged in his wake. The very same 'Elder' that Lieutenant Kirk had recognized, the one known as Sarek, had calmly commed the _Stalwart_ requesting a face-to-face meeting to resolve the 'regrettable misunderstanding' of the _Tat'sar's_ mission and cargo. Captain Taylor had accepted, quite logically. Spock has informed Admiral Pike of the development and is on his way to the main briefing room. The Federation Council are loudly and vociferously requesting a member of the Diplomatic Corps attend. No doubt, by the time the meeting is convened, they will have achieved their goal and Spock will be forced to endure strict diplomatic protocol. He will navigate it with the ease of familiarity.

He steps into the turbolift and requests the correct deck, hardly noticing how the space around him clears by habit; he is left insulated by a half metre of distance. He does not need to check the chrono to know it has been two point six days since he last slept or meditated properly. If he were prone to illogical thoughts, he might have wished for more favorable personal circumstances. As it is, he briefly considers administering the final dose within McCoy's hypo; his chest is tight, his muscles still prone to cramps and tremors, and his mind anything but clear. However, a quick approximation of the effects of further soraphine on his system leads him to believe it is inadvisable. He will wait until the situation is resolved, then utilize another trance to facilitate healing without the need for pharmacological intervention.

The lift doors hiss open and he strides into the corridor as though he never stopped moving. He spoke with Lieutenant Kirk longer than intended and it has pushed the envelope of his projected arrival time. He forces tired muscles to work harder, propelling him towards his destination. Spock is never late; he makes it to the briefing room with perhaps sixty seconds to spare. Within it, he finds one reason to be surprised and one thing that he expects. There is, indeed, a representative from the Diplomatic Corps present; however Captain Senekot is conspicuous by his absence. In fact, there are only two non- _Stalwart_ people present: one is a human and the other is the Vulcan Elder.

The Vulcan turns, alerted to his arrival by the sound of the door if not the mental presence of a fellow telepath. He gives the impression of someone a lot older than Spock judges him to be; tall but weighed down, grey-haired but bright-eyed. He makes the _ta'al_ and recites the traditional greeting with an air that, well, Spock would almost have to say it was an air of amusement.

He raises his own hand. Truly, for a man who shares the same name as his father, the resemblance is uncanny. "Live long and prosper," he returns, careful to keep his own voice totally devoid of emotion, then turns to the rest of the assembled. "Captain Taylor, Envoy Dhillon," he nods to each in turn, then pauses; at the limits of his knowledge.

"My apologies," the old Vulcan steps into the breach. "You may call me Sarek, but allow me to introduce Lieutenant Commander Hannah Bates."

Bates obviously knows Vulcans well, because she simply rises from her seat and nods. "Commander Spock."

"Well," Captain Taylor huffs, "now that we're all introduced, perhaps we could get down to business?"

"Indeed," Spock says, stiffly taking a seat opposite Sarek. "Perhaps be can begin by identifying your role in these proceedings," he suggests, raising an eyebrow at the older Vulcan. "Our Divisional Point One claims prior acquaintance and seems to feel you were an unwilling guest aboard the _Tat'sar_. This seems unlikely given your presence at this meeting, therefore I request clarification."

Dhillon exhales in hasty apology, leaning forward to intercede. "I'm sure what the Commander means is that ..."

"I believe the Commander and I understand each other perfectly," Sarek interrupts with the barest hint of amusement. "So, let me answer his question," his hooded eyes rise to take in the whole of the room, "for all our benefit. I have served aboard the science vessel _Tat'sar_ for the last eighteen months, two weeks and six point four days. My capacity aboard the ship is scientific advisor, although, as you no doubt infer from my presence and Captain Senekot's absence, the chain of command aboard our ship is somewhat," he quirks an eyebrow, "open to interpretation."

"If you are a willing participant in the _Tat'sar's_ undisclosed mission, please explain the containment field that temporarily incapacitated my Point One." Spock catches himself on the verge of sounding angry. He hasn't meant to direct proceedings, and certainly not with so much emotional motivation. Fatigue is clouding his control.

Sarek turns to him with a mild expression. "Lieutenant Kirk discovered our six most senior technicians at work within the prime laboratory. The containment field does indeed serve the purpose of preventing escape from that room, only not in the way Kirk believes."

"Commander," Taylor intervenes, a slow frown growing on his face. "Whilst Kirk's injuries are regrettable, I'm not entirely sure they are our primary concern."

"On the contrary, Captain," Sarek says smoothly. "I believe this information to be central to diffusing tensions between the Vulcan High Council and the Federation." His keen eyes sweep the room. "If you will allow me to continue?"

Taylor gestures with an open palm and Dhillon pushes her recorder a little closer.

"The containment field that so regrettably incapacitated the impulsive Lieutenant Kirk is designed to contain tachyon particles." Sarek glances at Captain Taylor, who in turn looks to Spock for an explanation.

"Tachyon radiation is associated with temporal anomalies," Spock states, turning his gaze back to Sarek. "They form the basis for the energy signature used to identify Nero's secret weapon."

"And here we come upon the crux of the matter," Sarek nods, pressing his fingertips together before him, "because I have little doubt that the Federation will not simply accept my word that the energy signature emanating from the _Tat'sar_ is inherently different in nature."

"No," Taylor shakes his head. "We won't."

"Logical," Sarek states, "and yet highly inconvenient."

"For whom?" Dhillon interjects before either Spock or the Captain can get a word in. "It strikes me, Mister Sarek, that nothing you've said can be interpreted as remotely reassuring from our point of view. The Federation Council has asked me to procure an ironclad guarantee that the _Tat'sar_ is operating with the full knowledge and approval of the Vulcan High Council, and with absolutely no affiliation to the criminal, Nero." She frowns at him intently. "Can you offer such assurances?"

"If you seek the finality of proof, then no, I cannot." Sarek is calm as he casts his eyes around the table. "However, the logic of Vulcans conspiring with Romulans seems inherently flawed given our races' recent history, would you not agree?"

Envoy Dhillon is suddenly loathe to meet Vulcan eyes around the table.

Spock feels the pressure of grief rise inside him, tingling at the edges of broken bonds and ruthlessly controlled loss. "I admit, I can think of no motivation powerful enough to induce such an association, however that does not preclude its existence."

"No," Sarek says, "it does not." He spreads his hands on the table top, his face almost friendly for a Vulcan. "And so, you see our predicament."

"I see that you have yet to offer an adequate explanation for either your presence aboard the _Tat'sar_ or that of nearly two dozen apparent refugees of conflict," Spock counters quickly.

"The Elders have empowered me to permit specific wavelength scans of the _Tat'sar_ in order to prove our disassociation from Nero. I also have with me a certified writ from the Vulcan High Council that we are not a military operation, nor a threat to the Federation. Additionally, any person aboard who does not wish to remain a passenger is welcome to disembark."

"Denying the Federation a full investigation of events will not help your cause," Spock warns.

"Commander," Sarek says, pinning him with eyes suddenly fierce. "No person at this table could hope to comprehend my cause."

Abrupt silence engulfs the table as the two Vulcans try to out stare each other. Spock feels suddenly as though he is a youth again, standing before the Council and throwing their accolades back in their faces, defying everything he always thought he'd be based purely on an instinct he should have been trained to ignore. Anger and trust form a heady mix, flooding his synapses and making him ask the question he'd longed to answer since the moment Jim had rematerialized.

"Who are you?"

Sarek stands slowly, hands slipping into wide sleeves, to regard the Diplomatic Envoy and the Captain of the _Stalwart_ as though they are the only people in the room. "I offer an assurance that cannot be disputed," he grates out. "I offer a meeting of minds."

The bottom of Spock's world drops away, because there is only one logical candidate for such a procedure, and he does not welcome the intimacy.

"Well?" Sarek demands. It could be impatience or simply efficiency that lends a bite to his words. "Will it suffice?"

Taylor and Dhillon exchange uncertain glances.

"Divisional Commander Spock is a decorated field officer of command rank," Dhillon says tentatively. "I believe the Council will accept his testimony if it is backed by the hard diagnostic data you offer."

"I concur," Taylor nods. "A logical conclusion between reasonable people."

Sarek turns to Spock with hard eyes and tilts his head. "If you have no objection?"

Pushing to his feet, he does his best to remain impassive. "None."

The fact that Taylor has not considered his willingness makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Amongst Vulcans, a meld is not something undertaken lightly or for mere convenience. The very fact that Sarek is offering it means that he is unwilling or unable to prove his point in an alternative manner. The situation makes Spock suspicious, which is never a stable basis for a meld.

"Very well."

With a sinking feeling, Spock realizes they will be afforded no modicum of privacy. The time-honored technique is to be presented in the manner of a side-show, a novelty to be witnessed by his Captain and the Envoy in order that they can report Spock's every reaction. His conduct will become testimony, will reflect on the veracity of Sarek's statement and his own Vulcan control. Even rested and composed, the reality of the situation would have been troubling.

Spock stands stiffly, eyes studiously on the table as he rounds its corner and comes to a stop within touching distance of Sarek. He has not melded with anyone since he left Vulcan, since he joined EPAS. It has been many years, and the familiar lore has grown dusty with disuse and guilt. His last meld had been with another man of the same name, and it had left neither of them at peace. The one before that ...

Spock lifts his eyes, takes another half-step closer as dry fingers settle competently on his face.

"My mind to your mind," Sarek intones. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Try as he might, Spock cannot repress the surge of fear as a mind older and infinitely more powerful than his own finds a foothold upon his consciousness and grows.

  
-:-

  
Jim has always prided himself on knowing when to lose it and when to keep a firm lid on his temper. He hasn't felt so out of control for a very long time. If he had the presence of mind to analyze the situation he'd have recognized the futility of the confrontation he's seeking, but everything is clouded by anger and betrayal, because _dammit_ , up until fifteen minutes ago he'd actually been _sorry_ for failing to trust Spock.

Robicon IV have backed down, the _Tat'sar_ is no longer listed as a threat and the Captain has declared shore leave on Gant's World their next destination after the Vulcans are towed home, so it's no surprise the hangar bay is deserted. Still, it makes it easy for Jim to spot the familiar set of Spock's shoulders as he slips into the salvaged wreck of their shuttle.

"Hey!" he calls, jaw aching from grinding his teeth. "Commander!"

Nobody emerges and Jim feels his blood begin to boil. He breaks into a jog, hands clenched into fists and lips pressed tight. He disdains the buckled runner, leaping into the semi-gutted interior in a single adrenaline-fuelled bound. Spock is standing with his back turned, one hand gripping the railing.

"I've got a few questions," he manages, breathing heavily through his nose. "Like why you convinced Taylor and the Council that those Vulcan bastards should be able to hold people against their will."

"Nobody aboard the _Tat'sar_ is a prisoner," Spock says without turning. "All are free to do and go as they please."

"And you know that, how?" Jim presses. "Because Sarek reached inside your brain and made it so?"

Spock half turns, throwing his grim face into profile. "It is impossible to lie in a meld."

"So maybe Sarek believes it," Jim grits out, "I don't know, he seemed like a good guy back in Iowa, but you're seriously just going to take his word for it?"

"He is not who you believe him to be. I have no choice."

If Jim were a little less pissed, he might have noticed the hint of imbalance in that normally level voice, instead he just takes another step closer, nails digging into his palms. "The fuck you don't," he hisses. "You were the one chance we had to get back aboard that vessel, to get to the bottom of this mess, to free those poor people and find out once and for all what your goddamn, secretive, oh-so-superior Vulcan High Council is doing with a ship that _reeks_ of mass destruction!"

"The _Tat'sar_ is a rescue ship, not dissimilar to our own," Spock mutters, pausing to swallow. "The tachyon radiation is simply a byproduct of their primary mission. I saw it, I saw it all."

"Well, I haven't seen shit!" Jim shouts, grabbing Spock by a shoulder and spinning him around. "And neither has the rest of the Federation. I don't care what the Captain says, unless I can see for my own eyes that those people are okay, then I'm not going to believe it."

Spock shrugs out of his grip absently, eyes still strangely unfocused. "You know nothing of trust."

"Oh," Jim laughs nastily, "that's rich coming from you, the only person aboard this ship who has the faintest idea what's going on! So give me something, make me believe we're not just abandoning them, turning our back because it's less complicated."

"I am not obliged to reassure you. My testimony is classified until such time as the Federation Council deems it otherwise."

"Fuck my security clearance," Jim grips him by the front of his uniform, "and fuck your sense of obligation. I want to trust you, I just don't know _how_."

Spock's eyes flick from Jim's face to his fisted hands and back again. He straightens slightly. "If you were not already on medical leave, I should place you on it for being emotionally compromised."

Jim exhales on a laugh and hangs his head, still pulsing with the need to break something or _know_ something, but he relaxes his hands, smoothing them across the bunched chest of Spock's uniform to straighten the material. "You're right; I'm compromised."

"Resume a proper distance," Spock demands, but the catch in his voice finally gets Jim's attention.

Jim looks at him, really looks at him for the first time since hunting him down, and registers the tattered edges of his usually immaculate control. "What happened in the meld that compromised you, too?"

Spock says nothing, his dark eyes steady, hands loose at his sides.

Jim is suddenly dry and gutted from all the anger and adrenaline. "Promise me we're doing the right thing. I want to hear you say it."

"The people aboard the _Tat'sar_ owe their life to the Vulcan you know as Sarek and to Captain Senekot. Although their circumstances are less than ideal, they are not being coerced, abused or in any way maltreated."

"Damn you," Jim whispers intensely, "you better not be lying to me."

"Surely you would know."

Jim's split lip stretches into an uncomfortable smile as he concedes the point, remembering the observation deck and the way they'd bonded over truths and untruths. Only hours ago, he'd looked up from impossible odds to find that Spock was behind him, was reliable, and they'd walked away from that together, like it was meant to be. Suddenly, more than anything, he wants that feeling back. He needs a counterbalance to the memories and the secrecy, to make sense of the last twenty four hours, so he reaches out, grabs a handful of Spock's uniform and kisses him, hard.

Jim isn't really sure what prompts it, but he's always been self-destructive when he's angry. The moment holds for a split second, then Spock snaps an open palm into his chest, propelling him away to strike Nix's inner wall. He's suddenly breathless for all the wrong reasons. Spock's eyes are almost black as he closes the distance between them with two long strides, pinning him in place by the throat and squeezing just tightly enough to make Jim see stars.

As conflicted as he is, Jim is unsurprised to realize that it feels good, that the utter powerlessness is what he needs; some kind of surrender. He does trust Spock, trusts him with his life. The vulnerability is different to how he remembers; the pain doesn't feel like a betrayal. He knew it. With his breath coming in strained gasps, the blood drumming in his ears and his mind on the edge of unconsciousness, all he can think is _yes, this!_

Spock's grip falters as he senses it through his fingertips. Jim sucks in a deep breath around the slackening, his lips and cheeks tingling so hard it's like the slap of vacuum, like death and danger, like they always are together. As always, he feels most whole when he's slightly broken. "Come on," he rasps, and it's less of a plea and more of a challenge.

Spock stares at him with the same concentration he applies to every seemingly inexplicable occurrence, his brows acute, full lips set in a firm line. Finally his head falls and his focus shifts so that he's looking away and to the right. His hand follows suit, but not in the way Jim expects. With firm pressure, Spock's palm slides down, across his chest and away almost reluctantly. Using the wall to steady himself, he jumps from the shuttle and Jim is left with the rhythmic sound of his boots growing further away.

He lifts a hand to finger the redness that will soon turn to bruises, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall, panting from shock and asphyxiation and a deep seated physical need. His head falls back, too heavy to support any longer, until it hits the inner hull with a dull thud.

"Fuck," he whispers into the twisted interior.

  
-:-

  
The older Spock turns in the deserted transporter room, recognizing the cadence of his own feet, striking the deck in a rhythm that spells out his emotions more clearly than any cipher. His younger self regards him from the door, leaner and more exhausted than he can ever remember being at a similar age. The things he saw in that mind go a long way to explaining why this reality is so different from the others he has seen.

His Jim would have said something about wishing and fish.

"You have questions?"

His younger self nods. "I have many."

"You now know it is dangerous for me to answer them."

"James T. Kirk?"

"Ah."

  
-:-

  
Jim's never really been one for paperwork, so it's no wonder that Pike sends him a message on the third day to idly enquire why all his mission reports, statistics and projections are meticulously up to date. Jim mails him back with a few short lines about how Spock is rubbing off on him and tries not to let it conjure too many images. Seventy two hours since they warped out of the _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ system and left the _Tat'sar_ behind. He's managed to keep completely out of sight with no missions to run and Spock being closeted in vid-conferences with the Federation Council. It's been easier than Jim expected.

When he can't find any more legitimate work to do, he turns to the queue of personal messages in his inbox, meager though it is. He automatically skips over the one from his mother; it's a group comm designed to let any number of people know where she's currently posted. He'll read it later. Inevitably, his eyes come to rest on the latest missive from Sulu. It's highlighted red now, instead of the orange it'd been last week, indicating that his response is well overdue.

He's been in his quarters for so long that he does something he's never done before, and taps the screen for a direct connection, not even bothering to check where Sulu is posted or what time it might be. Fate smiles upon him and Sulu's surprised face floods his terminal.

"Jim? Is everything okay?"

"What does it say about me that I can't comm you without it being some kind of emergency?"

"That you suck at long distance relationships?"

"I told you before, I don't want your body."

"Say it with conviction and I might even believe you," Sulu grins. "Seriously, though, what's up?"

Jim rubs a hand in the back of his neck and slumps in his chair. "Oh, I don't know. So much of my life is classified now, it kind of kills the small talk."

"You mean Robicon."

"It makes sense that you heard."

"Pretty hard to keep that kind of thing quiet. Shit Jim, you couldn't have messaged to say you were alive?"

"I'm sorry," he mutters, breaking off eye contact to stare at the ceiling. "I didn't think."

"Believe it or not, that doesn't come as a surprise to me."

Jim rolls his eyes. "I'm beginning to be sorry I called."

"Asshole."

"My impulses seem to be getting me in trouble lately," he sighs.

"Not from what Pike tells me."

Jim frowns and sits up a little. "You two are always talking about each other. What did he do, bring you flowers while you were on medical leave?"

"He might have used the EPAS report to keep me from getting demoted," Sulu admits. "I owe him a lot."

"Mmn," Jim grouses noncommittally.

"So," Sulu says after a time. "You going to tell me why you called?"

Jim toys with the notion of just coming out and saying it. He allows himself to experience a shadow of the relief that would follow an admission that he'd disobeyed, sworn at and kissed his superior officer all within a matter of hours. He takes a good hard look at Sulu's face on the vidscreen and finds a tight smile. "No reason."

-:-

Ashe feels it when they drop out of warp. She holds the vibrations of this gallant old ship deep in her bones. She imagines that ten years could pass and the _Stalwart's_ corridors would still feel like home. Clambering awkwardly onto her brand new crutches, she can see the peaceful curve of Gant's World through the viewport.

Her kit is packed, her belongings stowed for transport home. She's not going to need much in the way of personal effects where she's going. Besides, they'd only serve to remind her of everything she's leaving behind.

"Ashe?" McCoy clears his throat before continuing. He seems uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. "Would you like me to walk you out?"

Her eyes fill with tears, but she knows she can't have that, not yet. "Meet me there instead?"

"Okay," he nods, understanding.

-:-

Jim takes a long, hot shower after he cuts the connection to Sulu. They're docked at Gant's orbital station, so the scrubbers can take the abuse. He needs the heat and the pounding of the water against his skin to combat the tension. He closes his eyes, tries to block out the memory of the shuttle going down, of impossibilities aboard the _Tat'sar_ and the unexpected rightness of the second before Spock pushed him away.

It doesn't hurt quite enough when he punches the wall.

  
-:-

  
If she's completely honest with herself, Ashe can admit that she's wallowing a little. The important thing is not to _look_ like she's wallowing, so she laughs aside all the offers of assistance, ignores the juddering uncoordination of crutches and the part of herself that wants to stay hidden away in rehab where nobody can see her. The rest of her remembers Sally Morrison and the countless others before her who weren't afforded the luxury of self pity, and that's enough to keep her moving.

She's been doing this long enough to realize that out here, the crew's solicitousness is motivated by fear. She's been there herself, staring at the walking wounded thinking 'thank fuck it isn't me.' She doesn't hate them for it, doesn't allow herself to fall into that trap. She's never been a victim, something she learned from Spock. She's absorbed that mental and physical fortitude but knows it comes at a price, has seen him pay it when the mask slips from time to time. It's let her cling to a sense of self.

It's surprising when the computer tells her she'll find the Commander in the aft hanger bay, checking off manifests and departures like some first year cadet. It throws her balance, making her stumble and catch herself on a pile of loosely stacked medical supplies. They go clattering to the deck, making him look up, and all she can think is that suddenly she doesn't want to do this now; she isn't ready.

Spock watches calmly, one eyebrow raised. "Lieutenant Commander."

"Sir."

"Doctor McCoy has released you from rehabilitation."

"As you see."

She scores an acquiescent nod for that piece of logic. "He failed to mention that fact during our morning briefing."

"He released me three days ago," she confesses. "Officially, I'm now on leave."

Spock knows her well enough after all this time to hear the unspoken clause. "Unofficially?"

"I'm not sure."

"I see."

They stare at each other a while, Spock having risen from his chair, one hand still clutching a manifest and Ashe in the middle of a scattered mess of hand sanitizer and disposable wipes. There are too many questions, inconsistencies so numerous that the strangeness of their circumstances is like a taste in the air. Both are where they shouldn't be, where they wouldn't be, but for what's brought them here.

"Jim's a good guy," she says, apropos of nothing, but it seems to fit the moment.

"Your permanent absence would be a significant loss to EPAS," Spock says carefully.

"And yet you'll manage."

"Of course," he agrees flatly, at his most controlled.

"I just don't think I can do this anymore."

For the first time during the conversation, Spock looks slightly discomfited. "If possible, I would request you take some time to reconsider this course of action. It is logical for the trauma and upheaval of recent events to have a negative impact on your emotional equilibrium."

"With all due respect, you wouldn't have the first clue about my emotional equilibrium."

He blinks. "This is, in all likelihood, quite true. However, my point still stands."

"I can't watch you nearly die again," Ashe says, her throat tight, "and I shouldn't have to."

His lips part, but he says nothing.

"Find someone else to do it," she spits, "someone who can care a little less than I do, or a little more." Ashe swallows painfully, knuckles white on the grips of her crutches. "This is the way it has to be, even though I _love_ this job. It's all I ever wanted to do, everything I wanted to be. Nothing else will ever touch this, what I had here, what I'm leaving. I feel like shit for doing it, but I have to save a little of myself." She leans forward, lifts one hand to fist in the shirt over her heart, feels the bite of supports in her arms. "Do you understand what I'm saying? One more time and there might not be anything left."

Spock watches her for a long time, his angular face unreadable. As always, his blacks are as neatly pressed at the end of the day as they were at the dawn of it and Ashe knows she's going to ache for that sight and a million others like it for the rest of her life. More than anything he might have said, that makes her snap a salute, mutter something about appropriate paperwork and hobble for the exit without looking back.

She needs a drink and she needs to get off this ship.

  
-:-

  
Alone in the hangar bay, Spock sinks slowly back into his chair. When he places the manifest on the desk, it is perfectly aligned with the edge of the compiler and the data port, but that doesn't change the fact his hands are shaking.

  
-:-

  
Jim shrugs into his leather jacket the second they rematerialise. It's musty with months of disuse, the soft leather peaked at the shoulders from sitting on the hanger. No matter how he twists, it doesn't seem to fit right. He grabs hold of McCoy's shirt and starts walking.

"Didn't you have protocols to review with Spock?" the doctor demands, frowning impressively as he's towed through the crowded spaceport. "Explain to me again why you decided to take shore leave after all?"

"Spur of the moment decision."

"Did you even pack a bag? Dammit Jim, where are we going?"

"Don't care, doesn't matter," he returns businesslike, scanning the possible exits with narrowed eyes. "I'm not planning on needing a change of clothes."

"For the love of ... I'm supposed to meet someone!"

"Here, this way."

 


	18. chapter 4.1

Jim should have guessed there'd be few people better equipped to pretend something never happened than a Vulcan. When he makes it back onto the ship, tired and sore and in desperate need of a shower, he naturally runs into Spock in the turbolift. Their eyes meet, then part, and Jim takes his place with an awkward clearing of his throat.

"Deck five."

"I trust your shore leave was beneficial?"

Jim has to look at him then, to make sure he isn't joking, because he knows he looks like hell and smells like booze. "Uh, yeah. It was a dream."

Spock faces forward again and clasps his hands. Jim feels justified in staring a little. What he sees should reassure him, but the small amount of time he's spent sober in the last two days has given him perspective and Spock's impeccable neatness actually sets his teeth on edge: his posture is perfect, his hair a freak of nature, his face clear of the dark shadows under his eyes and tinged slightly with a healthy Vulcan green. He looks disgustingly rested and composed.

Still, if this is the line Spock wants to toe, he has to admit that things will be simpler this way. Like it or not, they're both officers, both bound to a chain of command, each required to serve to the best of their ability, and if the regs don't expressly forbid fraternization, they certainly don't encourage it. Ignoring the situation is not precisely _logical_ , but it's certainly convenient.

The doors swish open and Jim steps quickly forward.

"Lieutenant."

"Commander."

Jim clings to the relief that Spock hasn't cited him or fired him, allowing himself to relax in the knowledge right up until he catches sight of the EPAS official report on Robicon IV sitting on his desk. It seems that Spock has completed it in his absence, submitted it to EPAS, and yes, had it returned with all the newly classified pieces of information conveniently blanked out. He lets his jacket fall to the floor in order to hold the PADD with both hands, scrolling with his thumbs as he speed reads through all the initial negotiations and finally reaches the portions that involve the _Tat'sar_. The majority of their findings have been censored to the point where they only make sense to Jim because he was _there_ , for fuck's sake. Anyone else reading it would be doing well to piece together the fact that the ship was Vulcan, let alone who was on it and what their mission might be.

When he reaches the section covering Spock's testimony of the mindmeld, he actually double taps the screen to re-load it, in case the data is corrupted. When the text remains obscured, he's not quite sure whether to be angry or amused. Only the section heading and the threat assessment are declassified: "Vulcan Agent, Alias: Sarek ... Threat Assessment: Amber," he mutters to the silence in his quarters.

"Amber," he repeats, letting his hands fall, tapping the PADD against his thigh as he absorbs that information.

At the top of the priority filter on his comm account is a request for all intel he may possess on one Sarek of Vulcan, the one that isn't Spock's dad. He's to present his report in person to Pike during their brief shore leave on Earth. Jim is not surprised.

  
-:-

  
"What happened on Gant's World?" Sulu probes with a slight smile from the screen. "You've been different. You meet a girl?"

Jim hides his face behind his glass and takes a long swallow of Scotty's hooch. "Several, in fact."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Because I've learned to live down to your expectations."

Sulu laughs at that, but it has a bitter edge to it. "Shit, Jim, you know you shouldn't be proud of that, right?"

"So everyone tells me."

"Come on, what's her name?"

He shakes his head, rolling his tongue against his teeth to purge the fiery aftertaste of the liquor. "There's no girl, Hikaru."

"Fine, don't tell me." Sulu puts on his best frown, but there's a hint of real worry behind it. "Are they going to give you some real shore leave soon? Something closer to home? Two days in over a year, it's not enough."

He shrugs and toys with the glass on the desktop, watching the prisms it makes in the overhead light. "I don't know. Operational necessity and all that. If you guys keep fighting all the time, I can't have a vacation. Feeling guilty yet?"

"Talk to Nero."

"Just give me the chance," Jim sighs. "I bet we'd become fast friends. We could trade stories about our destructive tendencies while we braid each other's hair."

"You're seriously deranged."

"I know."

"Just don't leave it so long between comms, okay?" Sulu shifts uneasily in his seat, lightyears away. "I'm getting a new ship soon, so I might just see you out there."

Jim glances up from playing with his tumbler. "I pray you don't. What ship are they giving you?"

"No idea," Sulu shrugs.

He's lying, but Jim lets it pass.

-:-

"Scotty?"

"Aye, Lieutenant?" the engineer looks up from the impressive tangle of wires in his hands. "What can I do for you?"

"It's more what I can do for you," Jim counters, feeling the smile on his face as though it's new and dangerous. "You know that organic warp matrix you've been rambling about?"

"How can I forget it?" Scotty looks wounded. "Having you check my calculations cost me two bottles of fine single malt!"

"You've got approval."

His pale blue eyes go saucer-round. "You're not serious?"

Jim hands over the PADD with Spock's authorization plain to see.

"Oh!" Scotty exclaims, clutching it with both hands, the wiring abruptly forgotten. "Oh!"

"Calm down, it's only a trial."

"I can have it up and running in four hours, sir!"

"Take your time," Jim advises, turning to leave. "Just make sure it works!" The smile slips from his face in the corridor; before Robicon, Spock had started to give news like that in person rather than having an ensign leave it on Jim's desk.

  
-:-

  
His mind should be focused on the Klingons and Romulans swarming over Deep Space Two, but Jim knows there's trouble the second Hannity leaps out of Nix. She's got her visor up and one hand pressed over her face as she runs for the changing rooms. Lioli makes an abortive grab at her EVA suit, but Hannity twists away, blood trickling out from behind her fingers.

"Spock?" He asks for permission even though he's already moving.

"Five minutes."

He crosses the deck at a dead run, ignoring the yellow safety lines, hoping that Spock is too busy getting handover from Lioli to notice. He bounces off several other female crew as he ducks into the women's changing rooms, muttering apologies to their startled shouts. Several stalls are occupied, but only one is marked by a trail of crimson splashes.

"Annie!" he shouts, pounding on the door.

"Go away!"

"Come on, don't do this," he pleads, fists resting against the partition. "I've only got a minute."

"Go away, Jim!"

"You don't want that," he says more softly, letting his head rest beside his hands. "You know you don't."

The door opens so abruptly that Jim almost falls in. Hannity hits him in the chest, a bloody ball of incoherent apology that he does his best to stabilize. They careen into one of the walls, tripping over the shower recess before he manages to brace his feet and get a handle on the situation.

"Whoa," he hushes her, pushing her visor further back, stripping off the membrane underneath to get a better look at her face.

She stares up at him through the tears and the blood, sniffing and coughing and clutching at his blacks. "I didn't clip in properly. How many times do they tell you in Basic, always check your line? How many times, and I still forgot."

Jim winces and lightly grips the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "You want it back in or you want Chapel to do it?"

"You do it," she coughs.

With the ease of long practice, Jim braces her with a hand to the back of her head and gives a sharp twist. To Hannity's credit, she doesn't even squeak, just lifts an arm to wipe her lips clean and spits into the shower.

It's then that Uhura comes muscling in, hands on her hips and a look on her face that is all about Jim being an idiot, but it fades as soon as she takes in the scene. "I'll do pre-flight with Lioli," she offers, hand raised to stall him, already backing away. "Take as long as you can."

"Yeah," Jim nods, "thanks Uhura."

The change rooms are full of women, all belonging to different EPAS specialities, but given the degree of privacy they're offered, Jim and Hannity might as well be alone. The surrounding voices are pitched normally and steam rises from the showers either side of them, but not a single eye is turned their way. It's at that moment, sitting on the floor with their booted ankles touching, that the _Stalwart_ starts to feel like home again.

-:-

Christopher Pike takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, arms crossed and glaring through the screen. "Why not?"

"Because I haven't been there in years," Jim insists. "It's too quiet, it's boring, there's nothing there for me anymore and oh, have I mentioned it's boring?"

"You can't hide from that town forever," Pike lectures, using what Jim likes to think of as his fatherly tone.

"I'm not hiding, I'm spurning." Jim offers his most outrageous grin. "With the whole universe at my disposal, why the hell would I take shore leave in Riverside?"

"Because your mother is going to be there, Jessica and I are going to be there, hell, even Sam is talking about jumping a freighter and heading home for a week." Pike punctuates this minor miracle with a finger planted in his desk. "When was the last time you saw Sam? Do you even know he's engaged now? What's it going to look like if everyone's there except for you?"

Jim raises both eyebrows innocently. "That none of you listened to a word I said?"

"Jim!"

"Listen, Admiral," Jim sighs, he's just about out of patience with this conversation and it shows. "I've got ninety four refugees aboard from Deep Space Two and I'd really like to know when they're going. With things as they stand, we'll have to start doubling up quarters if Nero pulls another Leridia on us, and you know he will. Things are just too tasty and chaotic along the boarder of Klingon space for him to resist bisecting the fleet with a bit of a skirmish."

"That's what the Admirality figures, too." Pike has a dangerous glint in his eye but seems to let the homecoming drop. "They predict something major within the next five days, the trouble is deciding where he's going to commit his main fleet. It could be the Robicon System, it could be Khitomer."

" _Ql'tomer_ ," Jim corrects his pronunciation without thinking.

"Klingon," Pike grimaces. "Always makes you sound like you're choking on something."

"You really believe Nero is stupid enough to engage an enemy on two fronts when he's this close to Earth?" Jim lays his PADD on the desk and leans forward, elbows perched on his knees. "We all know that's where he's headed, as much as the President tries to assure us it's not."

"Give Wescott a chance," Pike growls. "This is his first term. It's hard to win trust in this climate."

"Climate?" Jim laughs. "It's less of a climate and more of a natural disaster, wouldn't you say?"

"The President is doing his best to avoid panic."

"Yeah, and great help that's going to be when Nero shows up and leaves a nice, quiet singularity where you're planning my birthday party."

The two men stare at each other, each angry for different reasons.

"Jim, just come home for a week."

"Can you guarantee it's going to be there if I do?"

"Dammit, I'm serious!"

"So am I," and he suddenly is, all traces of light-heartedness banished. "Sir, I need to get these refugees off the _Stalwart_ and back into Federation space. It's not safe for them here, and it's not safe for us having them on board. You know the only thing stopping Nero from blowing EPAS out of the sky is the fact that we keep our complement down. We've got nothing he wants, not tech, not weapons, not casualties or hostages. Now, tell me where you want to set up a rendezvous. What kind of transports have we got in the quadrant?"

The muscles in Pike's jaw bunch and relax, but he smooths his hands over his desk and nods. "I've got a retrofitted cargo ship about two parsecs from your current position. It shouldn't be too much of a detour on your way to Khitomer." He doesn't even try to replicate the correct consonants.

Jim pulls up a star chart on his terminal and makes note of the coordinates Pike sends through. The astrogation program automatically picks up on the cargo ship's designation, haloing it with a pale blue cross-hair and circle. "Okay, but there's some scattered Romulan activity in our most direct flight path."

Pike leans forward. "I haven't heard about that."

"No reason why you should; it's not Nero," Jim shrugs, "just some opportunistic clan or another playing pirate, making a little trouble. I'll speak to Spock, see what he says."

"What's the delay, if you plot around?"

Jim sucks his teeth as he does a few quick calculations. "Factoring in the forty eight hour stop-over on Earth, I don't know, maybe eighteen hours? I'll need Ops to take a look."

"We really need you on the Klingon border before then."

"Know something I don't?" Jim lifts his eyes from his screen.

"Rumblings and rumors," Pike assures him, but something about the guardedness in his eyes puts Jim's teeth on edge.

"We could go straight through the middle of them if we were fast enough," he says quietly. "Do you know about our resident mad scientist and his warp engine experiment?"

"Spock sent me a brief," Pike says. "I haven't read it."

"Small-scale testing shows a predicted increase in warp speed to nearly Vulcan levels if we implement it across one hundred percent of both nacelles."

"What does Captain Taylor think of all this?"

Jim tries to make his smile less patronizing. "He's cautiously optimistic."

"I'll lean on him when you dock at Luna."

"Thank you, sir."

"Oh, and Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"You're getting your next shore leave on Earth whether you like it or not, so man up and call your mother."

Jim stabs his finger on the comm switch so hard that the terminal buzzes a warning even as it cuts the connection.

-:-

Jim dumps his kit on the bench next to Spock's then sighs heavily. The deployment at Deep Space Two had left him with a lot of cleaning up to do. With _Ql'tomer_ looming on the horizon, everything warrants an overhaul. A Point's kit is their own responsibility, just as much as every Pilot oversees all maintenance or tech work undertaken on their medevac shuttle. At the end of the day, the buck stops with whoever needs to rely on the technology in question.

After about six months, most Points are well over the drudgery of the task. The concept of anyone else maintaining Jim's kit elicits a response as near to paranoia as makes no difference. 'My bad' is not a phrase you want to hear over the comms.

Spock pauses in his own work to look up. "I anticipate I will require use of the polymer extruder for a further fifteen minutes. Will that inconvenience you?"

"No," Jim shakes his head and starts sorting through the mess. "I've got plenty more to do."

Spock turns back to the small transponder in his hands, the one that is supposedly next to indestructible. It's currently in three pieces.

"Nice one," Jim drawls. "What happened?"

"Disruptor fire coupled with an impact of approximately nine hundred and eighty newtons caused the shatterproof casing to...shatter."

"How'd you get hit with something weighing one hundred kilograms? I don't remember seeing that." Jim is slightly awestruck. "And why aren't you, you know, crushed?"

"I was not struck by any external force," Spock explains, placing the inner components of the device carefully on the bordered workspace before him. "Vulcan physiology has a higher density than that of humans. It was my own mass that caused the damage to the transponder."

A slow grin spreads across Jim's face. "You fell on your transponder?"

"I did not fall," Spock shoots him a vaguely irritated look. "I believe I mentioned that armed Romulans were involved."

Jim smiles to himself, because the pissiness is Spock's way of relaxing the strict politeness between them. "Uh-huh."

"Pass the hydraulic aspirator."

Jim smiles wider, but obediently hands it over. Spock gives an exhalation that for anyone else would have been unimportant but for him constitutes a sigh. Jim turns back to his kit, amusement lingering at the corners of his mouth. Truth be told, he loves kit hours. There's something almost meditative about taking everything apart, testing it, cleaning it and putting it back together again. It's a small piece of consistency in an otherwise chaotic lifestyle; a soothing routine amongst the unpredictability. Plus, it means he gets to hang out with Spock when they're _not_ risking their lives, which will be good for smoothing things over.

The situation makes Jim feel a little guilty because of how much he likes being part of Nix Alpha; he's only there because Ashe got hurt. He could easily get demoted or more likely transferred when she comes back. Even with that, today he couldn't tamp down the spring in his step on the way to the lab, or the warmth in his gut when he saw Spock there, sleeves rolled to the elbow, smeared with lubricant and grime. Given his completely inappropriate behavior and the subsequent strangling, there should be more awkwardness between them, but it seems to be easing through simple proximity. They just _get_ each other, and Jim hasn't had that before. Maybe Spock actually understands why he did it, why the very insanity of that kiss made sense at the time.

Turning back to his work, he grimaces, pressing repeatedly and ineffectually at the release points on his EVA suit's life support module. When the cover remains stubbornly closed after his fifth attempt, Jim curses and mutters something about there being times he'd rather just throw the whole thing into a damn cycler and get a new one. The thin, pointed tools designed for opening the CPU are sliding all over the place, utterly failing to grip where he needs them to.

Spock's fingers appear out of nowhere, lifting the module out of his hands and laying it in the gap between their work spaces. "Here," he says, head bent, eyes focused intently. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Jim tucks his hands under his arms and watches as Spock uses the index and ring fingers of both hands to depress the safety releases whilst simultaneously lifting the then exposed chip with his neatly trimmed thumbnails. He lets the whole thing fall back into place once he's demonstrated the technique and slides it back across the bench.

"I believe you will find that more expedient than attempting to utilize tools."

Jim attempts to mimic the maneuver. After a couple of failed attempts, one of which results in the module skittering so far across the desk that Spock has to retrieve it, he succeeds with his bare hands.

"Neat," he nods, turning the chip over in his palm, "they should teach it in Basic."

Spock's eyebrows lift marginally. "I shall mention it to Admiral Pike in my next report."

"Tell him about that thing you showed me on DS2, as well," he nods at his kit, reminding Spock of their recent close shave. "The one about the visor quick-release."

"Surely it is not necessary for that to be curriculum?" Spock frowns. "It is a thoroughly logical to approach to that particular scenario."

"I could have asphyxiated," Jim reminds him. "You had to point it out to me."

"You are a particularly illogical being."

Jim's mouth falls open, but then he catches the barest hint of an expression on Spock's face. It's not a smile, but the corners of his eyes have crinkled slightly with warmth. Seeing it feels a lot like relief. "Bastard," he says without feeling. "Seriously, tell Pike though."

"If you truly believe it is necessary, then I shall do so."

"Tell him he's a horse's ass, from me, while you're at it."

There is a pregnant pause and from the corner of his eye, he can see Spock's hands have frozen in place.

"I trust I do not need to inform you that I shall do no such thing."

"I'll do it myself," Jim grumps. His amusement at the idea of Spock actually saying that to Pike's face is warring with the genuine irritation he feels recalling the conversation about Riverside. "Except I'll make it less polite," he glances to his right, "by using more adjectives."

Spock's hands start moving again, smoothing the hot polymer over the weak patches in the seams of his suit. "What is the source of your displeasure?"

"He meddled," Jim mutters, blowing on his life support CPU to clean it and ignores the way Spock winces. "Because he's a meddling meddler."

"That is particularly opaque, even for you."

"Mmm," Jim agrees, not entirely sure he wants to explain the conversation to anybody.

A few minutes pass while they continue to work, shoulder to shoulder. The chrono above the bench ticks the seconds away carelessly. Spock places his suit in the booth to cure and turns to his heavily scratched and dented visor.

"I do not wish to belabor an issue you find discomfiting," he says, never taking his eyes from the density scanner he's using to assess the aluminium's integrity. "However, should you wish to discuss the cause of your dissatisfaction with the Admiral, I assure you that I will not have any difficulty maintaining confidentiality on your behalf."

Jim looks up.

Spock continues speaking conversationally. "Admiral Pike and I served together for many years. I was his Point One. I do not wish you to believe that this history, the understanding between he and I has any bearing on our own working relationship." Spock pauses, turns to face Jim more fully. "You are my Point One, a circumstance I do not take lightly. If you choose to unburden yourself of this concern, it will be held in confidence."

Jim has to look down at his workspace again, his face burning, his throat tight. He can remember when Pike first came to visit them in Iowa with tales of a rookie Vulcan recruit who was going to be just brilliant, one in a million, one of a kind. Pike doesn't enthuse like that about just anyone, and with the few casual anecdotes that followed, Jim had assumed a deep bond of friendship between the two men. It had never even occurred to him that he could have that, too, or that Spock might place him above such history. He's grateful and it scares him.

"Well, thanks," he manages finally, in a voice not quite his own. "I appreciate it."

"Your thanks are not necessary." Spock turns back to his scanner, which bleeps and flashes red.

Jim peers over his shoulder at the reading. "I think you need a new one of those."

"The scanner is perfectly functional," Spock deadpans.

"You think you're so funny."

-:-

  
"How the fuck did we get in the middle of this?" Jim wonders aloud, keeping his miniature phaser levelled and backing slowly in Spock's direction until their shoulders bump, each facing off one end of the abandoned freighter's corridor.

"I do not know."

Spock's voice is a mix of irritation and irony. It draws a laugh out of him even now, at this highly inappropriate moment. Several Romulan soldiers inch closer, their disruptors aimed point blank at the EPAS officers' heads. The weapons are everything the EPAS phasers are not: large, weighty and suitably deadly. The most he and Spock can manage is a heavy stun.

"Thoughts, Commander?" Jim mutters, his eyes flicking along each of the five Romulans slowly inching down his end of the corridor. At the back of his mind, he's quietly grateful the evac is complete. Having civilians caught up in the middle of a firefight creates too many variables.

"Direct confrontation would seem inadvisable."

"Yeah, I'd got that far on my own."

Spock's back shifts lightly against his own as the Vulcan turns from side to side, taking a quick inventory of their surrounds. "Lieutenant Kirk, are you familiar with the pre-warp era human strategist by the name of Sun Tzu?"

"What? No. Why?"

"This deficit in your education is most inconvenient."

Jim whips around to stare at Spock, keeping one arm outstretched, the phaser still pointed at the lead Romulan. "You seriously want to talk about my major? Now?"

"Much has changed since the time of Sun Tzu; however, many of his observations remain pertinent to this day."

"I had no idea you were such an avid historian." It comes out snarky as hell.

"He is quoted as saying, 'what is of supreme importance in war is to attack the enemy's strategy,'" Spock continues calmly.

"Sign me up." Jim grimaces as the Romulans draw even closer.

"I confess to having read a copy that belongs to _you_. It was the day you told me to _go_ to hell and _left_ me behind at the ice-creamery."

Jim takes a moment to process that, partially due to the unusual emphasis and inflection in Spock's voice, but mostly because it makes no sense at all. Then suddenly it does.

After some frantic thinking Jim offers, " _you_ can _go right_ on pretending I know what you're talking about," and hopes like hell that none of the Romulans speak Standard well enough to recognise the stresses he's putting in unexpected places.

" _I am_ not certain you are capable of _lowering_ yourself to appreciate _the gravity_ of the situation."

That last one would have been funny under other circumstances, because this code they're using is making Spock sound incredibly bitchy. Jim's eyes dart towards the panel to the right; environmental controls. Then he notices the transparent aluminium windows to his left. Spock can only mean one thing. The Romulans are close enough now that hand to hand combat is imminent.

They trade a glance.

On some unspoken cue, they break for each side of the corridor. Jim gets off two shots into the roof, sending a cascade of sparks showering down and plunging them into flickering chaos. His next two shots are for the window. It groans and splinters under the resonant frequency of close-range heavy stun. Behind him, he can hear the incredible clatter of Spock's fingers on the keys as he disengages artificial gravity faster than humanly possible. Jim gets off one more shot into the window, but then his phaser, never meant for this kind of action, is fully discharged and useless.

The Romulans are returning fire, but it's going wide because the recoil from their disruptors is sending them floating off the deck and spinning them like marionettes with their strings cut.

Spock puts his boots against the wall and propels himself across the corridor. He tucks his knees to his chest, minimizing his profile amongst the hail of fire that comes his way. Jim's magnetic boots anchor him to the hull, give him the leverage needed to bring his otherwise useless phaser down butt-first against the weakened aluminium. It cracks further, groaning ominously, and then there's the hiss of escaping atmosphere.

In the end, all it takes is Spock's momentum to shatter it, and they're all sucked out into space in a rush and tumble, magnetic boots be damned.

Still, Kirk has to admit that wrapped in the life-preserving bubble of their EVA suits, he and Spock have a distinct advantage over the Romulans who don't even get off a scream before they're snap-frozen.

"Hey," he says casually as Spock jets neatly over and clips them together.

"Greetings."

Jim cracks the cover on his emergency beacon and watches it start to blink happily. "Fancy meeting you here."

Through the polarized visor, Spock's eyebrow shoots up.

Jim's laughter is tinny through the comm.

-:-

"Kirk!"

Jim turns his head, trying not to get jostled in the post-briefing crowd. He knows the voice, but McCoy is not yet visible. His arms are stacked with PADDs; it's going to be a long day of collating the quarterly statistics for Prime Division's Occupational Health and Safety Report to Luna. Given what went down at Deep Space Two and the near-constant skirmishing across the Romulan Neutral Zone, he's anticipating quite a few people will need long rotations out of field positions. He's notified Pike, and with any luck, there will be a reply on his terminal when he makes it back to his quarters. He feels like he's owed it, given how Pike keeps going on about his mother.

The crew file past him with a few salutes and a couple of greetings which he returns distractedly. He has a feeling he knows what's coming, but that doesn't mean he's looking forward to it. Bones has been hounding him for a heart to heart ever since Gant's World. Finally, the doctor's side-part and his mildly irritated scowl come into view.

"What did you do, bolt for the door like a first year Cadet the minute Spock said 'class dismissed'?" McCoy grabs him by the elbow, nearly unseating his load. "We need to talk and I need coffee."

"Okay, but I'm a busy man," he nods at the PADDs.

McCoy frowns at them and shakes his head. "You're a genius, make time."

"I've got a comm queue the length of the ship."

"That's a lousy excuse."

Jim bows to the inevitable and allows himself to be led into McCoy's office. The spare chair takes his workload while McCoy replicates them two mugs, Jim's with milk and sugar.

"Right," Jim sighs when he's seated, one ankle crossed over the other knee. "Lay it on me."

As always, his blase approach rankles McCoy, who waggles a finger in the space between them. "You were out of control on shore leave. I was worried about you."

"One bar crawl doesn't mean ..."

"One bar crawl that lasts two days can mean a lot of things," McCoy objects. "I've been wanting to drag you in here all week and find out what the hell that was all about, but between the Romulans and the Klingons there hasn't been a chance."

"You've got nothing to worry about."

"Has that line ever worked on anybody?" he demands. "Ever?"

"Bones, I had a bad day," Jim spreads his free hand for emphasis, "that's all."

"Bad day my ass," he scoffs. "You don't hijack a man's first shore leave in twelve months and pretend like nothing happened. A bad day for you is when the replicator spontaneously forgets how to make bacon; it isn't giving yourself alcohol poisoning and propositioning the entire population of an orbital space station."

"I'm pretty sure I explained while we were there," Jim frowns, "at the second place we were at, or the third."

McCoy sets his mug on the desk with a thunk. "If you mean the part where you claimed you were raised by wolves on a corn plantation while your mother secretly ran the Federation, but you'd ruined it all by not being able to travel through time and by falling in love with Spock, then yeah," he glares furiously. "You explained it just fine!"

Jim blushes then and hopes to hell McCoy assumes it's for the right reason. He thought he'd dreamed the bit about time travel.

"And I worry about you for a week," the doctor continues, "then you waltz in here without a care in the world." He throws up his hands. "I don't even know what to think."

"I'm just," he pulls a wordless face at his coffee, "working through a few things, I guess."

McCoy raises his eyebrows. "You've never worked through anything in your life."

"Oh, that's flattering."

"You're sublimating, aren't you?"

"Let it go, Bones."

"Is it Ashe?" he presses. "Did she tell you she was going to resign?"

Jim stills, the coffee mug perched precariously on his knee. When he looks up, his eyes are hard and steady. "Ashe's not coming back?"

McCoy runs a hand down his face. "Oh, hell."

"I've got somewhere to be," he mutters, setting the mug down so hard it slops over the sides. "Thanks for the chat."

"Yeah," the doctor sighs weakly. "Any time."

Jim hardly even hears, just keeps walking, knowing he needs motion, needs movement. Inevitably, he finds himself on the observation deck. It's small and out-dated compared to the new floor-to-ceiling areas being fitted to newer Constellation class ships. Still, the stars flash past with the same familiar light trails and it's enough.

With a guilty flash, he realises that they didn't even say goodbye, he and Ashe, not properly. Of course, why would he make a point of it, given he'd believed she'd come back? How stupid he'd been, how naive. It seemed obvious now, so blatantly ridiculous to imagine Ashe serving out another ten or twenty years in EPAS in Ops or behind a desk on Luna. Ashe was a Point. Not even nerve damage could change that.

"Lieutenant?"

Spock's voice actually makes him jump, but he turns, outwardly composed. "Commander?"

"Are the Occupational Health and Safety Reports are troubling you? We are due to arrive on schedule at Earth and are required to file them prior to our arrival."

"Troubling me? No," he shakes his head. "No, they're not."

Spock nods to himself, taking a few more steps, bringing himself alongside to stare out at the stars. "Do you require assistance? I am engaged in nothing that can not be postponed."

"I was just thinking about Ashe," Jim says, reminding himself that being direct is never a bad thing when dealing with Vulcans.

"Gant's World can provide the best chance for her full recovery," Spock reminds him without missing a beat, as though they've always been talking about Ashe, like the conversation is plucked right out of Jim's unconscious mind.

"I know she's not coming back," he reveals, figuring that if Bones knows, Spock would have to, because Ashe isn't an asshole like that.

Right then is when Spock stiffens. It's not so much a flinch as an absence of a flinch, of all movement not necessary to life. Air still passes between his lips, his ribcage still expands and deflates, but only because it would be illogical to do otherwise, Jim is certain. It's as clear as day that Spock has been deeply affected by Ashe's decision, perhaps even more deeply than Jim himself, and hell, he and Ashe used to fuck, so that was saying something.

"The loss of her expertise will reduce our overall efficiency," Spock says finally, his lips the only animated thing about him.

Control, Jim thinks. That's some incredible control, right there. "I'm going to miss her, too," he says, instead.

Spock's head turns, but he ends up looking at the carpet near Jim's feet instead. "I had assumed you would remain in contact."

"Right," he nods, because why wouldn't Spock know they'd been an item, he knew just about everything else that went on within the _Stalwart's_ hull. "We're not like that," he explains, attempting to clarify a brand of relationship that must be fairly foreign to a Vulcan. "She doesn't want that from me."

"And you, Jim?" Spock asks intently. "What are your...feelings on the matter?"

"I wish I'd known she was leaving," he admits instantly, "but only because I feel like a dick for not saying goodbye properly. That's an asshole move, regardless of the circumstances, and I'm going to have to think of a way to make it up to her." He chews his bottom lip and looks back out at the passing space. "Mostly I feel like I have to trust that she's doing the right thing, that she's thought this through."

"I have reason to believe that it was not an impulsive choice."

"Did she tell you why?" he feels compelled to ask. "Can you explain it to me?"

Spock glares at the star trails as though they are to blame. "Not adequately."

"The worst part is that I'm relieved," Jim admits, searching Spock's face for the emotions he expects to find hidden there; pity, dismissal, perhaps even a little disgust. "I was just waiting for the moment when I said or did the wrong thing and made her feel like a cripple."

"Lieutenant Ho _is_ crippled," Spock says, as though Jim is suffering from delusions.

"Yeah, but it's different when you see it." He swallows, throat suddenly dry. "You can be a thing, but it doesn't have any power over you until you realise that's who you'll always be when other people look at you."

The silence is suddenly charged, and Jim wishes like hell he'd remembered to keep talking about Ashe rather than letting his fucking human empathy run riot down the paths of memory lane. The slight, fleeting pressure of Spock's hand on his shoulder is enough to halt that train of self-recrimination instantaneously.

"Defining oneself through others is both unwise and self-destructive," Spock tells him quietly. "I believe Lieutenant Ho's decision to resign her commission reflects a thorough comprehension of this principle. You would benefit from her example." He pauses, dark eyes measuring. "As would I."

Without any further explanation, Spock inclines his head, turns, and walks unhurriedly out of the Observation Deck. Jim is still staring after him when a nervous ensign from Medical arrives with her arms full of the PADDs he'd abandoned in McCoy's office.

 

 


	19. chapter 4.2

"Unless you want some time to yourself, ask Jim to lend you a hand on this one," Pike says, with the slight tightness to his expression that makes Spock realize the request is important.

"I do not see the virtue of shore leave if said leave is not spent in recreation," Spock objects. He knows how stressed Jim has been since the Robicon debacle and can not fathom why Pike would want him embroiled in the lengthy Council debates that will arise in the aftermath of their report. This communication was meant to be a simple task briefing, and Spock is not prepared for Pike to intervene in the manner Jim so often accuses him of doing.

"You're not planning to spend two days cultivating a tan on a California beach, why should Jim be any different?"

"Because he is human," Spock answers quickly, "because humans benefit from occupying themselves with trivialities and unproductive behaviors as a means of maintaining their emotional equilibrium."

"Yes, thanks for that," Pike nods, looking exasperated. "I've been a human for a while now, I'm familiar with the concept of a vacation."

"You are unusually facetious today," Spock feels obliged to comment.

Pike actually grins at him. "And you're unusually opinionated. Jim's been good for you, which makes me feel even worse about the situation I've put him in. Now do as I say and ask him."

"And what will his role be in proceedings, should I ask and he accept?" Spock steeples his fingers on the desk in an attempt to leash his frustration. "I cannot request that he relinquish his brief shore leave only to provide no logical alternative for his time."

"He's Divisional Point One," Pike shrugs, "and he's smart. I'm sure you'll find something. Pike out."

Spock allows himself a brief grimace. He does not understand the Admiral's request, but will naturally oblige him in this, as with so much else. Pike has not yet been wrong about James Kirk; if he believes the Lieutenant will benefit from spending this short break preparing for and attending tedious Council meetings, then Spock does not feel sufficiently qualified in the lore of human behavior to question it. That does not mean he finds the situation logical. In the slightest.

If he is completely honest with himself, a state he aspires to at all times, he can admit that a degree of his reluctance is attributable to the as yet unresolved tension between them. Since Gant's World, they have proven their ability to remain a professionally functional team; however, Spock would need to be both psi null and particularly obtuse to be unaware of the relentless swell of empathy between them. He has never experienced it with another, this instinctive camaraderie. The closest parallel he could draw would be the all encompassing acceptance he always sensed from his mother, except that Jim never makes him feels safe in the way that she did; he never feels the same certainty.

He stands, tugs on his uniform to straighten it, and contemplates the surface of his desk for a handful of seconds. His internal timekeeping tells him that the official handover between Alpha and Beta teams has occurred. He is officially off duty for eight hours, but his body does not require sleep tonight and his mind restlessly seeks something to occupy it. Rebelliously, Spock shuns the PADD containing Engineer Scott's latest results from the organic warp matrix experiment and crosses to his small wardrobe. His hand hesitates over the EVA suit he normally wears when running; a logical training approach designed to simulate deployment conditions. Instead, he selects the little-worn EPAS casual tee and tracksuit. Prime Division is circuitously en route to _Ql'tomer_ , a temperate Klingon border world with many sub-arctic zones. It is logical to acclimatize.

He will not allow his subconscious to dictate his daily routine. Exercise is a more logical use of his body's energy and will provide him with an opportunity to enter a light state of meditation as a precursor to the deeper one that will substitute for sleep. His mother had referred to this habit as 'wool-gathering,' a human expression that he finds nonsensical to this day. However, he cannot deny that unlike other Vulcans, his mind benefits from this informal practice. He often finds solutions to stubborn practical problems or answers to complicated social questions in the borderland between his conscious and unconscious mind.

The gym is practically deserted at the dinner/breakfast hour that marks shift changeover. Spock disdains his usual environmental booth, finding the ship's uncomfortably low ambient temperature sufficient challenge without his usual thermal under-layer. He sets a steady speed on the treadmill and begins to run, feet striking the shock-absorbing surface in steady rhythm, his stride-length practiced and familiar.

After nine point four minutes, he feels his internal temperature rise to comfortable levels and allows his mind to relax into a less disciplined state. Instantly, he is overwhelmed by emotional stimuli; the chill on his skin, the growing burn in his muscles, the tension that sits between his shoulder blades like a fist. The cool air drags at his throat uncomfortably, leaving behind a coppery tang of stressed capillaries. With conscious effort, he relaxes his throat, draws more air into his body, assesses the workload required by his current pace and orders himself to adjust to the demand. Within forty seconds, the taste disappears and the discomfort of temperature barely registers. Spock rolls his neck, releasing a dull collection of cracks, and increases his speed by point five of a click per hour.

His mind sinks deeper into practiced internal layers, coming to rest at the third circle, somewhere between true meditation and simple relaxation. This internal landscape has been witness to several momentous decisions in his life; the choices seemingly plucked from the ether with a human romanticism he would never admit to in any other conscious state. Alone on the slopes of Mount Seleya, the towering guardian of Shi'Khar on Vulcan-that-was, he had drifted in and out of this mental place for hours at a time, seeking the internal fulcrum that allows all Vulcans control of emotion. His solution, though effective, was thoroughly alien to his teachers. Spock has never truly suppressed emotion in his life, he merely channels it into less destructive pathways.

As though the recollection is a trigger, his chest tightens and his eyes burn with confusion and loss.

Ashe.

Spock rests in the place where the emotions of her leaving have been waiting for him. He opens them up, like a box in storage, a mysterious package without an inventory, with no clues to signify the depth or breadth of intensity he might find within. The sadness is one thing he expects, rendering it simple to acknowledge and dismiss. Ashe has been a competent and innovative Point One, and moreover, they have become reasonably close. Of the people who surround him, Spock can count only a few he could even consider as friends. Ashe had been one. It is logical feel sadness. Spock cradles the feeling, allows himself to fully experience it, then releases it to disappear like smoke on the wind.

The next emotion that arises is unexpected in many ways. It is difficult to define, being so interlaced with other, lesser feelings, but when he stumbles upon the correct interpretation it is such a revelation that he is snapped out of his meditative state and back to the conscious world with a ferocity that makes him reach out and grab the guard rail until he finds his feet again.

Guilt. Deep, overwhelming guilt and a sense of responsibility.

Ashe had been injured protecting _him_. There had been no operational imperative that demanded her actions, no threat to EPAS, the evacuees, or the _Stalwart_. Put simply, the only possible gain had been avoiding injury to Spock himself. Despite his higher body mass, stronger bone matrix, faster reaction time and heightened healing ability, Ashe had interceded on his behalf. The time-frame had been insufficient to allow proper human deliberation; her actions had been instinct, likely motivated by emotion.

He recalls their conversation in the shuttle bay, her vehemence and her blazing human feeling; detectable without physical contact, battering at his mental shields like closed fists, demanding acknowledgment. Her confession ... could he truly say, without doubt, that he had not suspected her feelings?

"Computer," he manages, breathlessly. "Cease program."

The treadmill and he slow together, his hands firmly braced on the rails, breathing labored, skin tingling with cold even as his muscles burn with exertion. The machine comes to a stop, but he does not move, cannot possibly move at that moment.

"Hey, Spock."

Jim's voice startles him. He looks up, grapples with his control, with his mental barriers, but not before he senses the quickly suppressed concern from his Point One. "Lieutenant Kirk?"

"If you're done here, I thought we might ..."

Jim gestures vaguely in the direction of the rec room with one hand. Spock glances in the direction indicated, as though doing so might yield an explanation. It does not. "Clarify," he requests.

"You, me," Jim explains succinctly, "chess."

"Chess?"

"Someone said you play."

Spock opens his mouth and closes it again. How to explain that the thought of being surrounded by his mostly human crew, by their thoughts and their demonstrative natures, leaves him unsettled. He pictures attempting to focus in that environment and is rewarded with a sensation of instant distaste. His own emotions need leashing. He needs the time to center himself.

"I must decline."

Jim tilts his head, eyes suddenly calculating. "There are also those reports from Scotty; he told me he filed them his morning. We could go over them together and then," he shrugs at the folded board under his arm, "if there's time after that."

Without knowing why, Spock nods. "Very well."

  
-:-

  
Something's bothering Spock, Jim can tell. First, there was that whole running without an EVA suit, which Spock never does, and now he's nodding over Scotty's report as though he's interested, but not offering any of the pointed observations Jim has come to expect. Spock's hair is damp and slightly wavy from his shower, but his blacks are immaculately pressed. Something about the dichotomy has deeper meaning, but Jim can't put his finger on it.

They both agree that Mr. Scott's theories have been proven sound.

"With minute adjustments," Spock is saying, "it would be relatively simple to implement this innovation across the EPAS fleet."

"Being faster is going to get us out of a lot of tight spots," Jim agrees, "but won't it draw Nero's attention? Right now, he doesn't care about us, is happy to abide by the Romulan ideal and Federation Treaty of non-interference with search and rescue, but won't that change if we go zipping around at warp nine?"

Spock clutches the PADD in both hands and stares at it intently, as though it holds the answers to Jim's questions. He nods a little then sets it down, turning calm brown eyes in Jim's direction and waiting. For what, Jim isn't sure.

"What do we do about that side of things?" he presses, leaning forward over the desk a little. "The way I see it, the speed is a trade off. We might be able to facilitate a better save-to-loss ratio, but we could put our immunity in jeopardy. What do you think?"

Spock's expression never changes. He sets the PADD down silently and folds his hands. "I must ask you to leave."

"What?"

Spock stands, forcing Jim to do the same. "I am fatigued," he continues blandly. "I require time to meditate."

"Okay," Jim says, being herded towards the door and not quite sure what to do about it. "Can we talk about this before we dock? I promised Scotty I'd float the idea with Pike, but I don't want to do that without your input."

"I am available for consultation between oh nine hundred and eleven hundred hours tomorrow," Spock reminds him.

"Right," Jim agrees, rudderless and confused. "Oh nine hundred then," he presses. "After briefing."

Spock inclines his head. "Good night, Lieutenant."

"'Night," Jim returns, but the door to Spock's quarters has already swished closed.

He turns in the direction of his own, only to realize what he's left behind. "Damn," he mutters, half-turning back, "the chess set."

Something about the memory of Spock's preoccupation brings him up short. He stands in the corridor, ignoring the strange looks from other personnel as they walk purposefully past. Whatever is weighing on Spock's mind, it's more important than the set. Resigned to a night of reading in his own quarters, Jim turns away, deep in thought.

  
-:-

  
Returning to the spaceport on Luna is kind of surreal. Jim steps steps through customs with his civilian bag over his shoulder and his casual blacks creased from enduring the morning briefing, then the shuttle ride. This time, he garners surreptitious looks from bystanders, his uniform drawing their attention in a way his command gold never had. One young red shirt detaches himself from a group, stepping into Jim's path with an excited smile and an extended hand.

"I don't expect you to remember me, sir," the boy opens dismissively, grabbing Jim's hand in both of his own and holding it tightly instead of shaking it. "I'm Danny Petersen, from the _Calypso_."

"Right," Jim nods, returning the pressure of the young man's grip.

"I was the guy in the jammed escape pod," he forges on, searching for the flash of memory on Jim's face. "You went EVA, came at me from the outside?"

And there it is, the recognition Petersen is after, because that's not the kind of save you ever forget. "Holy shit," he grins, changing the handshake into a fist bump. "Of course I remember you, that was intense!"

"Doesn't even begin to cover it," Danny enthuses, slapping Jim on the shoulder and grinning ear to ear. "Can I ... can I introduce you to my friends?"

A little bewildered, Jim nods, allowing himself to be led by the shoulder to the group of Starfleet personnel who have all turned to watch when their buddy bolted over to greet an apparent stranger with all the eagerness of a long lost brother.

"This," Danny grins, presenting Jim with a flourish any game show host would envy, "is Lieutenant James T. Kirk."

"No way!" exclaims a young woman in science blues, and then promptly throws a hand over her mouth.

"Seriously?" says another.

"You're the guy who piked Danny?" the final member of the group demands.

Jim shrugs. It's weird knowing that these guys have heard about that day, that it has obviously made quite an impression on them. "Whatever he's told you ..."

"Stop right there," says the man in question, silencing Jim with an imperious finger. "You saved my life. It's my story, and it's awesome, _you_ were awesome. I never got to thank you properly, we got shipped home so fast. So, look, we're on shore leave for the next six hours, if you're around, let me buy you a drink?"

Jim swallows down the lump in his throat and takes in the circle of hopeful faces. "I wish I could, but I've got debrief in fifteen minutes." A sea of groans and sighs engulfs him, but he has no choice and they know it.

"After," Danny insists. "Here's my comm number."

Jim casts his eye over the code that's appeared on his own screen. "Okay, maybe. No promises."

  
-:-

  
"You're late," Pike tells him without preamble.

"I got accosted in the gate lounge."

"The word you're looking for is 'thanked,' Jim."

"Whatever."

"Take a seat."

Jim throws his bag to the floor and slumps into the ergonomic chair with a pronounced disdain for the posture it's intended to encourage. "How long is this going to take? I've got a grateful public offering to buy me drinks."

"You won't take them up on it," Pike murmurs, already scrolling through the report Jim's tossed on his desk. "I know you."

Jim doesn't confirm or deny, just rubs idly at the afternoon shadow on his jaw. "Did you really need me here in person? I wrote down everything I could think of."

"I just have a few questions," Pike responds, eyes still glued to the report.

"How can you have questions? You haven't even read that yet."

"Trust me, Jim," he says as he looks up for the first time. "You won't have answered these."

  
-:-

  
Spock swipes into his hotel room and crosses to the bedroom. The rest of the suite is minimalist and open-plan, light and airy in a way that reminds him of the brief period of time he spent teaching at Starfleet Academy. It had been a short but rewarding hiatus between completing his EPAS Basic Training and commencing as Point One to Christopher Pike. With six months at his disposal, he had traveled throughout the region known as North America, visited a few of Pacific Oceania's active volcanoes and then based himself in San Francisco for the remaining summer months. He'd taught astrophysics, xenobiology and advanced linguistics to a select group of particularly dedicated Academy post graduates.

He had been...gratified by the experience.

To be once again in San Francisco city, home to the Academy of Sciences, Palace of Fine Arts Theatre, Golden Gate Bridge, and Exploratorium feels strangely like a homecoming. It is not a sensation he anticipated, having irrevocably lost the only place he ever thought to call his home.

Spock lifts his case onto the crisp comforter and flicks it open. Atop the two uniforms and limited selection of casual clothes he has packed rests a folded chess board and pieces.

Decisively, he lifts them out.

  
-:-

Jim flips his communicator open and then closes it again for about the twentieth time. Bones is the only person he might call, but he knows for a fact the doctor got an immediate connecting flight to Georgia in order to spend some time with his young daughter before his ex-wife changed her mind. As much as he wants to, calling McCoy just isn't an option. His bag is weighing heavy on his shoulder and he looks like a schmuck or a pervert, hanging around the SanFran spaceport like this.

Two years ago, he would have thought nothing of his current situation; might have simply rented a room in some next to no good hotel and spent his pay on cheap liquor and cheaper company, but somewhere along the way he's changed enough that the mere thought of that leaves him empty inside. He doesn't want scratchy sheets, a hangover and a name he can't quite remember in the morning. Plus, if he stays here, people like Danny Petersen will be witness to his debauchery and he can't handle that idea. He's been put on a pedestal and he fucking hates it.

What to do with yourself when you get mature and responsible overnight?

He misses Uhura, Chekov and Hannity already, which he expected. What he doesn't really anticipate is missing Spock. They don't really hang out, don't converse much outside of ship's business, and have been awkward around each other since Robicon. Then again, when he does the math, he spends more time in Spock's company than he realized. He supposes it's natural then, in a way.

"Lieutenant Kirk?"

Jim jumps and swears, pocketing his communicator in a hurry, as though it might give him away. From the look on Spock's face, though, the damage might already have been done.

"Spock, what are you still doing here?"

"You are mistaken; sufficient time has elapsed for me to have found accommodation and then returned." He tilts his head. "A more appropriate question might be, what are _you_ still doing here?"

"Um," Jim shrugs with his mouth. "Just finished up my meeting with Pike, so trying to figure out where I'm headed, I guess."

"You have no set plans for shore leave?"

"I had a few vague ideas, but it's only two days and I ..." he clams up and just watches Spock digest that non-sentence.

"I see."

Jim winces and shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other. The thing is fucking heavy; packed full of books he's collected via mail order that need to be put in storage dirtside. "Why'd you come back?"

"I have a request to make," Spock says, eyes flicking from the overstuffed bag to Jim's tatty old traveling jeans and then up to his face. "There is much work to be done in preparation for the coming EPAS report on border tensions. As someone with first hand knowledge of the current situation, your input and testimony would be a valuable addition to our presentation." Spock watches him carefully for a reaction. "A purely voluntary undertaking, of course, and only if it does not disrupt your plans."

For the first time since he boarded the shuttle for Earth, Jim feels a genuine sense of relaxation wash over him. "Spock," he says, giving the bag a little hike up on his shoulder. "That's the best offer I've had all day."

"You are certain?"

Jim gestures with an open palm. "Lead on."

 _Welcome to San Francisco City. We're happy to meet you. Maps are located near the exits. Please refrain from parking vehicles in areas delineated by proximity notifications,_ the hidden speakers request as they exit the terminal, shoulder to shoulder. _These areas are reserved for diplomatic passengers and their immediate staff by arrangement only. All checked baggage will be automatically forwarded to your logged final destination. Please keep your hand luggage with you at all times. Na'shaya San Francisco'Khar. Amseti tre. Besan be'talal ruken ..._

If Spock is affected by the announcer switching to Vulcan he makes no sign. It is the official second language of Earth, has been since First Contact, and there are few travellers in Earth space who do not comprehend the simplified phrases used in such circumstances. It is a clear and present reminder of how influential Spock's people have been, and a poignant demonstration of how they might remain so, despite the decimation of their population.

Jim is so caught up in his observations that he almost runs straight into the small press cordon that's been waiting for Spock.

"Commander!" a young Andorian says hurriedly, stepping into their path and thrusting a recorder into Spock's face. "What can you tell us about the Vulcan ship known as the _Tat'sar?_ What was its mission in the Robicon system? Is it in any way linked to the recent Klingon activity?"

"Sir!" a woman calls, cutting them off from another angle. "Is there any truth to the rumor that the Klingons have struck a deal with the criminal Nero and that Vulcans brokered the terms?"

"Spock!" come the many voices. "Commander, over here!"

Jim unconsciously grips the shoulder strap of his pack more tightly. This is his first visit to Earth since his transfer to EPAS and certainly the first time since Vulcan that he's been on the periphery of any interest from the press. Spock has come to an abrupt halt, his face calm and impassive, but something about the set of his shoulders gives Jim the feeling that as accustomed as he is to some questioning, the scale of the crowd is unprecedented.

"I am neither permitted or inclined to speak of matters outside my area of expertise," he tells the sea of recording devices. "I am an EPAS employee, and in no way affiliated with military or diplomatic matters."

"Is the Vulcan High Council aware of the true nature of the _Tat'sar's_ mission? Can we expect the Council to reveal the purpose behind the terrorist activity on Robicon IV? Has your father said anything?"

Jim actually does a double take, because the reporter can't seriously mean to imply that Vulcans would nuke a town for political gain.

Spock's brows draw together in a way that Jim knows usually spells trouble. "I fail to comprehend your meaning."

The reporter falters at that, his hand lowering the recorder slightly as he struggles to rephrase his question in a away that Spock may answer it, but with almost all the sensationalism intact.

Jim doesn't give him the chance to pose it again. "Sorry, we have to go," he smiles at them, putting his body in front of Spock. "I'm sure the EPAS press secretary is empowered to issue responses to any further questions," he adds for good measure, using the slightest pressure of his shoulder against Spock's to get him moving.

"Spock! Wait! Commander, a sound byte for the five o'clock broadcast!"

"As the Lieutenant says," Spock returns with chill politeness.

The small crowd parts as they step through, although the many recorders stay poised mid-air, like a bristling forest of hope and frustration. Jim kind of feels sorry for them. He knows what it's like to work a job that makes you unpopular. Good days in EPAS make you a hero, but the bad days, they're something else.

Finally, the press seem convinced that neither of them will comment and stop following them with a few half-hearted curses. Jim casts a glance at Spock, taking note of the carefully measured stride and studied impassivity. "So," he says awkwardly. "Apparently your lot are in cahoots with Nero _and_ the Klingons."

Spock gives him a very pointed look. "The concept is thoroughly illogical."

"Couldn't have hurt to deny the nukes, though."

"Dignifying such irrationality with a response of any kind would only imply it was worthy of consideration." Spock stares stolidly ahead. "It is not."

"That's Vulcan logic."

"Yes."

"It doesn't work on humans," Jim smiles, shrugging the pack higher on his shoulder.

"Then it is fortunate that approximately seventy eight point six percent of the Federation is comprised of non-Humans," Spock says with a touch of what could only be called satisfaction.

Jim laughs under his breath and shakes his head, and just like that, the tension of their own private media circus is dispelled.

-:-

  
"So what? You want me to make a statement before the Council or something?"

They are climbing a flight of stairs to the first floor of the hotel. There is nothing amiss with the elevator, but Jim had grown frustrated while waiting for it, so Spock acquiesced and they use the fire escape instead. He has learned that when Jim is agitated, there is usually a very good reason, therefore his current state of unease is particularly intriguing, since Spock can think of no reason that doesn't directly involve the Lieutenant's meeting with Admiral Pike.

Certainly, Prime Division has been deployed on a number of highly demanding missions since then, but Jim has shown no undue stress either during or after each event. Spock may not comprehend Jim's responses to emotional stimuli, but he is now competent at identifying a number of them. In addition, the Admiral had alluded to a way he had contributed to Jim's unsettled state of mind. That, together with Jim's recent accusation of 'meddling' on Pike's behalf, leads Spock to believe that his Point One's restlessness has definable cause. It is a puzzle his mind refuses to relinquish, even though it is illogical to dedicate so much time to it.

"Spock? You want me to make a statement?"

Jim has paused on the landing, one hand on the door. His face is questioning and a little surprised by the need for repetition. Spock gives himself a mental shake. "Direct testimony is unlikely to be required, however I would find your input valuable during the writing of our official report on the situation. I have scheduled a meeting with Admiral Pike on Thursday for the purpose of reviewing the document prior to submission the same day."

"Thursday," Jim muses, putting his shoulder to the door. "That's the day we ship out."

"The first day to write it, the second to make any alterations we deem necessary."

"Sounds reasonable."

Jim is studying the swipe card in his hand, then searching the numbers on the doors with a distracted air. Finally, he finds the one he is looking for and drops his bag at his feet in order to program his own access code into the swipe. As Spock scans into his own room, Jim seems surprised.

"We're diagonally opposite?"

Spock raises an eyebrow. "It seemed logical, given the circumstances."

"Yeah," Jim nods, stooping to retrieve his bag and looking strangely uncomfortable. "Makes perfect sense."

As Jim disappears into his suite, Spock is left with one foot in and one foot outside of his own, a puzzled frown barely hinted at between his brows.

  
-:-

Jim wakes early, forces himself to drink a glass of water even though he's not thirsty and then changes into his running gear. It's barely sunrise, but he's always coped better with time differences if he beats his body into accepting the diurnal rhythms that surround it. The knots in his laces are too tight, but he can't be bothered adjusting them.

He chooses a path that will lead him to Starfleet Academy and then picks up an old route he used to run when he was a cadet. It weaves through the public botanical gardens, past the dome that houses the indoor swimming pool and back around the privatized pharmaceutical labs before rejoining the main road and taking him back to the hotel. When he arrives back at the hotel, breathless and sweating, there is a message waiting for him.

 _Lieutenant, join me at your convenience - Spock._

The Commander has neither buzzed for access to his rooms or set the message with an alarm, apparently unaware that Jim is already awake. The consideration shown makes Jim feel a little better about accepting Spock's offer. He'd spent part of the night tossing and turning, wondering whether it had been pity that prompted the request for his assistance. Then again, in the cold light of day, Spock just isn't the pity type.

Jim showers and changes into a tidy pair of jeans and a henley before buzzing at Spock's door. It opens almost immediately to reveal Spock dressed in slacks and a high-necked shirt of neutral tones. It's so utterly different from anything Jim's ever seen him wear before, for a moment Jim just stares.

Spock gives him the eyebrow.

"Sorry," Jim forces himself to blink and step past the Commander. "I brought these," he adds, waving the PADDs containing the telemetry, mission reports and Ops findings from their encounters with the Klingons. "Gaila was good enough to secure-comm them to me when I asked, but not before she gave me an earful for interrupting her...uh...gathering."

Jim had been about to say orgy, but decided it wasn't really a word he was comfortable using around Spock. That eyebrow merely inches higher, and Jim wonders if maybe he thought the word 'orgy' just a little too loudly. Telepathy and all that.

"Do you want to get started?" he asks quickly.

Spock nods. "You may have use of the desk. I find the floor more conducive to concentration."

Jim gives him a dubious look but doesn't argue.

In this effort, as with all things, they work brilliantly together. Jim is a little awestruck by the fact they have a workable outline within thirty minutes and a bare bones account of EPAS' concerns inside of two hours later. In fact, he's so absorbed by the quick exchange of ideas that it isn't until Spock gives him a very pointed look that he realizes his stomach is growling loud enough to be detected across the room.

"It is nearly midday," Spock observes. "Perhaps we should break for lunch."

"Sure," Jim says, smoothing over the fact he has neglected to eat breakfast. "We ordering in?"

Spock glances out the full length window by straightening his spine to see over the arm of the sofa. Whatever he gauges from that sliver of skyline seems to galvanize him, because he gracefully unfolds from what appears to be an incredibly uncomfortable yoga pose and places his own PADD on the coffee table.

"There is a venue within ten minutes walk from here that serves a Vulcan dish that is impossible to acquire in deep space."

Jim offers a lopsided smile. "Craving your favorite food?"

Spock does not dignify that with an answer, merely stalks into the bedroom and returns, bundled up to the ears in a long coat of Vulcan design. It's really not that cold out, but in order to make Spock stick out a little less, Jim ducks into his own room to grab his leather jacket before they set off.

  
-:-

  
"This is really disgusting," Jim says with a cough. "Sorry, but no."

Spock sips his own soup, his eyes narrowed over the rim of the bowl. "I have heard it likened to sweet potato," he says. "Do you disagree?"

"Sweet potato," Jim nods, "with the texture of oysters and just a hint of dishwater."

"If I did not know better, I would assume you to be completely lacking in cultural sensitivity."

Jim watches Spock break the hard biscuits into smaller pieces with a knife and fork. "I don't hate you, I just hate your damn soup."

"So I gathered."

Jim picks up the menu again and purses his lips. "What are the chances of getting a burger around here?"

"Slim to none," Spock replies with uncharacteristic vagueness. Perhaps the taste of home has loosened him up a little.

"Well, what's _like_ a burger, then?"

Spock peers over the edge of the menu and raises an eyebrow. "They may be able to serve the _vash g'ralth_ on a bun."

"Stop mocking me."

  
-:-

"That was by far the weirdest thing I've ever eaten."

Jim pats his stomach almost warily as they exit out onto the street. It's actually begun to rain while they were inside, so he's grateful for the jacket which he zips up to his throat. Spock spares one curious look for the thick cloud cover before setting off towards the hotel, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets. Jim jogs a few steps to catch up.

"Can't imagine you'd like the rain a whole lot."

"On the contrary," Spock says conversationally, blinking to clear some of the drops from his eyelashes. "Precipitation was a rare occurrence on Vulcan, and thus cause for some celebration."

Jim tries to picture a bunch of rowdy Vulcans dancing in the rain and fails. "What kind of celebration?"

"It varied from region to region. Some tribes conducted ritual bathing, others used the excess water to ferment a beverage known as _k'vass_ , which was then consumed along with uncommonly generous servings of food."

"And your tribe, what did you do?"

"The House of Surak deemed all such celebration illogical. Precipitation is merely a meteorological event, not something worthy of marking with excessive eating and intoxication."

"Wow, you guys really know how to party...wait, did you say intoxication?" Jim perks up at this. "Vulcans get drunk?"

Spock looks decidedly cagey. "It is metabolically possible."

"You ever been drunk?"

Spock shoots him a quick frown. "No."

"Tipsy?"

"This line of questioning serves no purpose."

"I knew it."

When Spock looks over this time, there is a hint of alarm mixed with familiar frustration. "I would advise you not to make assumptions based on insufficient data."

"Okay, sure."

"If you continue to anthropomorphize every alien culture you encounter you will find yourself in danger of embracing solipsism."

"Your pleonasm doesn't scare me," Jim counters immediately.

Spock turns his face into the rain, but not fast enough to hide the amused twitch of his lips. "Evidently."

Jim is too busy enjoying the irrational surge of pride that comes from actually making Spock smile to notice the rapid approach of someone from his left. It's not until she steps in front of him, making him trip over his own feet that his preoccupied brain grinds to a halt.

"Don't blame Christopher," the woman says hurriedly, arms spread wide to stop Jim from leaving, the rain running off her hooded coat. "I practically forced it out of him and he already hates himself for it."

Jim clenches his teeth together against the impulse to indulge in one of the numerous curses flooding his brain. She's watching him so carefully, so hopefully, but fuck's sake, he'd actually been enjoying himself. Spock had actually smiled.

"Jim, please," she says, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain.

"I am going to kill him," he grits out, staring fiercely at the ground while he tries to figure out whether he has it in him to avoid telling someone to get fucked in Spock's presence.

It's then that he feels a hotter-than-human hand settle firmly on his shoulder, and knows that as much as he wants to, he can't run from this.

"Divisional Commander Spock," he says wearily, "this is Captain Winona Kirk, my mother."

Slowly, Spock raises a hand. "Live long and prosper."

"Unlikely, by the look on Jim's face, but thanks," Winona replies, but copies the gesture flawlessly before she turns to her son. "You got somewhere we can go? There are things that need saying."

"Yeah, sure, follow me," Jim says tightly, and is absurdly grateful when Spock shows no signs of disappearing.

 

 


	20. chapter 4.3

Spock is intending to retire to his own suite in order to finish their presentation for the Federation Council. It seems logical that Winona Kirk holds precedent over Jim's immediate commitments to EPAS, especially considering that Spock initially planned to prepare the whole report unassisted. However, when he moves to bid them farewell in the lobby, there is a moment of such undisguised panic in Jim's eyes that he falters. The elder Kirk, no doubt imbuing the moment with human nuance, insists that Spock stay. He, in turn, can find no logical reason to decline the invitation.

He finds himself in Jim's hotel room, standing against one of the walls and dripping on to the furnishings. Wordlessly, Jim offers him a towel in exchange for his coat. The gesture is replete with thanks, the look on Jim's face one of tight gratitude. Spock dismisses any thoughts he had of subtly retiring to the other room and begins to dry himself.

Winona Kirk wrings her ponytail out over the small kitchen sink and shakes her hands, the only concession she makes to the effects of the weather. Her son does not offer her a towel.

"Mom," Jim complains, Jim who is never particularly neat, when he sees the muddy footprints she's made on the tiling and the trail of water across the bench. "I can't believe Chris told you I was here."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me yourself!"

"Maybe _this_ is why."

"I don't understand why you won't let me throw you a birthday party," she counters, bony hands on her hips, the sharpness in her eyes and the jut of her chin heightening the resemblance between mother and son. "You could just drop in for the weekend, stay one night and then leave. Why do you make things so complicated?"

"Oh, I don't know, Mom," Jim sighs, his head buried in terry toweling. "Maybe because I don't like birthdays and I don't like Riverside?"

"It's just a weekend."

"It's a bad idea."

Silence descends and Spock believes it is an uncomfortable one. The scene is incredibly domestic, openly emotional in a way his home life on Vulcan never was. He is unsure of protocol, but is instinctively aware that Winona must resent his presence, at least on some level. Still, his loyalty lies with Jim, who clearly does not want to be alone with his mother.

"As far as you're concerned, all my ideas are bad ones," she frowns. "So give me a good one. I want to celebrate your thirtieth birthday. Way to shoot me down for trying to do the right thing."

Jim emerges from behind the towel, his scowl in full force. "The Kirk family doesn't care about the right thing, we don't care about what we _should_ do, only what we actually do, and celebrating my birthday just isn't part of that."

"Jim," she soothes, more quietly, with an outstretched hand to his arm, "honey, we can't make it a funeral every year."

"Yes," he says tightly, "we can. I'm used to it and it's the way I like it."

"No it isn't."

"The fuck would you know?" he demands, shrugging off her hand and punching an angry combination into the replicator.

Spock feels a surge of shock and embarrassment. To speak to a parent in such a manner is unheard of among his people. He cannot fathom Jim's motivation.

Two steaming cups materialize in the replicator. Jim grips one by the handle, the other by the rim and crosses the room to Spock. "Ginger," he explains. "They don't do Vulcan teas here."

Spock takes the cup by the handle and inclines his head, not trusting his voice. Jim remains standing in front of him, back turned on his mother, silent and dismissive as he takes his first sip. Over the rim, his blue eyes are blazing, unforgiving.

Winona shifts from foot to foot in the kitchen, wiping a palm across her brow to push away straggling, water-dark hair. "I don't know what to do with you, Jim. I'm trying, really I am, but you've got to meet me halfway."

Jim remains where he is, eyes locked with Spock's, sipping his black coffee. "I don't have to do shit," he says coldly.

Spock is transfixed by the sheer depth of emotion.

"Yeah, well," across the room, Winona sighs tiredly. "I won't apologize for giving birth to you. What do you want from me?"

This makes Jim turn, makes him cross back towards his mother, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "I don't want anything from you, Mom. I haven't for a very long time. I can't make that any clearer."

Her jaw sets in a firm line, giving Spock a greater understanding of Jim's stubbornness in the face of insurmountable obstacles. "I'm not giving up on you," she insists. "I'm your mother. Say whatever you need to say, nothing will change that. You can't make me stop loving you. We're family."

Jim scrapes his teeth over his top lip and turns away from Spock. With slow deliberation, he returns to his mother, like a fish on the end of the line, fighting every step of the way. He sets his mug down on the bench, eyes fixed on the handle as he toys with it.

"I know this is hard for you," she offers, taking a small step closer, fingertips resting on the bench beside his own. "We've never been good at this; Sam is the only one who ever knows what to say," she shrugs, boldly covering his hand with her own. "Somewhere along the way, you and I just stopped speaking the same language."

"Mom, we never even used the same _alphabet_ ," he says quietly, but his hand flips, his fingers close around hers, holding on.

Spock looks away, discomfited by the intimacy. He hears the shift of feet, the squeak of her raincoat against the bench top and knows they are embracing. The ginger tea steams comfortingly, the spicy scent wafting upwards across his face as he studiously contemplates the view from Jim's window.

"Call me," Winona says, her voice muffled. "We'll talk about it."

"We won't," Jim disagrees.

"Whatever."

With a small sniff and a quick step, Winona Kirk releases her son and crosses to the door. "Goodbye, Commander. Take care of my boy."

Spock turns to respond, but the door has already closed.

Jim stands where she left him, one hip leaning against the bench, his upturned hand lying limply like an insect in its death throes. Spock suppresses a shiver at the unwanted imagery.

  
-:-

  
Six hours later, the rain is still coming down and the report lies completed next to the chess board between them. Spock had returned to his own room to change into dry clothes with Jim trailing after him, disdaining concern about his own comfort. Over the course of their work, the dampness of his collar and jeans has faded, evaporated by the warmth of the environmental controls.

They have chosen to order in rather than interrupt their work to go in search of food again, although Spock secretly suspects Jim's preference had more to do with the irrational fear of encountering some other spectre of his past than mere dedication to his work. Still, he cannot deny that Jim's help is invaluable, the insights he offers both relevant and illuminating.

It is close to midnight and Jim is currently stirring a pan over the kitchen's small hotplate.

"Would it not be simpler to replicate the entire beverage rather than each separate ingredient?"

Jim shakes his head, moving the spoon through the hot milk. "Not the same."

Spock dismisses the illogic with increasing ease and turns back to the chess board. Their first game had ended quickly and decisively over a dinner of bean hot-pot with Spock victorious and barely challenged. Jim had immediately reset the board, a gleam in his eye bottom lip caught between his teeth, friendly threats and promises pouring out of him as is his habit when amiably thwarted.

Their second game hangs suspended, evenly matched, poised to go either way. Spock finds the development fascinating.

"Here," Jim says from where he has appeared by Spock's elbow. "No sugar, no cocoa, like you asked."

Spock accepts the mug with a lingering sense of suspicion, but the first sip confirms it contains merely milk and spices. He has no intention of becoming metabolically compromised in Jim's presence, well aware that he has a tendency to relax his control without requiring further assistance.

"Do you want to go out on the balcony?" Jim asks, gesturing with his own chocolate-rich beverage.

Spock lifts his head to take in the two chairs perched in the darkness overlooking the lights of San Francisco. It is cold and stormy, the wind unpleasantly chill and the overhanging roof offers imperfect shelter.

"If it pleases you."

  
-:-

  
Jim rolls his shoulders against the cold and crosses his legs. Sitting out here is a stupid idea. He doesn't know why Spock agreed to it. Perhaps he's still off balance from bearing witness to a Kirk family encounter. God knows most sane people find his family hard to cope with. Jim's suspicions are confirmed when Spock turns to him with an observation, huddling deeper into his overcoat.

"You seem to share a unique varietal of human relationship with your mother."

"Yeah," Jim sniffs. "We're pretty fucked up."

In lieu of reply and backlit by the light from within the hotel room, Spock's little huff of air is unusually visible. It gives more away than his careful neutrality ever will. There is a hint of disapproval for his language, an inherent disagreement with his assessment, as well as the restraint that keeps him from protesting. The breath floats away into the darkness, falling out of the beams of light and into Jim's memory.

"In her defense," he continues, "she's got her reasons for keeping away from me, and for wanting to see me, too."

Visible is a short, sharp exhalation of contempt through Spock's nose. "Avoidance is an illogical response to a familial issue."

"Works just fine for us."

Spock tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. "I admit, I have witnessed a similar approach within my own family on rare occasions, although never over such a prolonged period of time."

"I think everyone does it," Jim muses, slouching deeper into his chair. "You're supposed to respect your parents and they're supposed to understand you. Isn't that how it goes?"

"I think one could argue that is an overly naive and simplistic view."

"So sue me."

"I desire neither your money nor your material possessions," Spock says, probably just to be annoying.

"It can't work out all the time," Jim continues. "Fate has to screw things up here and there; put kids into families that don't know what to do with them and give parents children that drive them insane. Roll of the dice," he nods, taking a tentative sip from his mug. "Luck of the draw."

"You consider your relationship with your mother irreparable?"

"No, not really," Jim frowns and sips again. "Just the best it can hope to be."

Spock has already finished his hot drink, but still cradles the mug between his hands, thumb hooked through the hole. It seems like a very human gesture. The Commander follows that gaze down to his hands, then back up to Jim's face. "What would you change, if you were able?" he asks.

"That's a very illogical question for a Vulcan." Jim's standard response is still defensive, but there's no bite in it, no real venom.

Perhaps sensing that, Spock shrugs with only his bottom lip. "Nevertheless."

"Um," Jim exhales heavily, drawing out the sound. A thick white cloud of warm air coalesces in front of his face and he wonders if Spock can tell as much from his breath as he can divine from Spock's. There are so many responses to that question. Strangely, he feels like answering honestly, but it still leaves too much to say.

"If the question is overly personal in nature, I withdraw it."

"I guess," Jim drawls, completely ignoring the escape route, "one day I'd like her to look at me and really see who I am." He turns to Spock, knowing that what he's said doesn't make sense, but still wanting understanding. "Like we're both really here, in this moment, in the present."

Spock is watching him seriously, a small frown perched between his brows. "This means a lot to you," he says, but in a way that could be either a question or a statement. Whoever says Spock doesn't appreciate the subtleties of Standard needs to listen more carefully.

"No," Jim shakes his head. "I don't let it mean anything at all."

  
-:-

  
Spock arises the next morning with all the ease of someone who can program their body to slide into wakefulness at a suitable point in their sleep cycle. He wonders briefly how humans cope with being pulled forcibly out of deep REM sleep, simply because they set an alarm for a specific time. It is oh five hundred hours, San Francisco time, sixteen hundred on the ship, and Spock dresses quickly, having declined to heat his room overnight as it constitutes a waste of energy resources. He requests a cup of ginger tea from the replicator and steps out onto the balcony to await sunrise.

In the chill, dark moments before dawn, he notices two empty mugs from the night before. They sit together on the low table, encrusted with frost and an almost undetectable ring of spice and milk where the contents have clung to the inside of the porcelain. It is unlike him to be untidy, but their presence does not bother him. He raises the tea to his lips, basking in the warmth of rising vapours, and sips as the first fingers of light touch the sleeping city. Deliberately, he loosens his emotional control, allowing a softening feeling to overtake him. As if the sunlight were a signal, new noises spring up from the maze of streets below. Spock hears a voice, a slamming door, the electronic ignition of a vehicle and the distant toll of a bell; all so human, all so transient.

The sun lifts higher, creeping across the balustrade where he rests his hands, slipping over to warm his knuckles, his wrists, his arms. Bare seconds later, the light reaches around the corner and finds his face. Spock lets his eyelids close, dark olive shadows concealing the city below.

He is tired.

If it was a mere physical fatigue, finding a solution would be elementary, but it is not that simple. He sleeps more than most Vulcans, meditates daily, consumes the required caloric intake for his energy expenditure and indulges in physical activity to maintain well-being. Still, in his relaxed emotional state, with mental shields lowered and the mild, human sun on his face, Spock acknowledges the irrational desire to melt into the ground, to rest there indefinitely while the planet turns and the seasons pass. He feels old, worn out, empty. It is not rational, but that does not make it less true.

From contact with his other self, he fears the feeling will never desert him. His other mind, so ancient in comparison, is honed and sharpened to a thing of immense power. Yet, beneath it all, lies a bone-weary exhaustion that made Spock recoil. To his other self's thinking, the sacrifice, the ongoing effort is worth the price of such solitude. If that is his future, he fears lacking the strength to shoulder the burden. He does not want that life, that realization and that loss. He wants, perhaps, the tiniest portion of happiness; a glimpse of what his father had shared with his mother, not the blazing intensity of love and separation.

His other self has worked hard to hide those memories, but something so profound naturally rebels against concealment. James Kirk had slipped into view, different and older, flamboyant and irrepressible; not that man he knows, but recognizable. Spock does not believe in destiny, not within the definition of _this_ universe and declines to believe its existence in any other. He is not the man who goes by their father's name. They are not the same. That is a truth that both Spocks can acknowledge.

Alone with the wakening city, he slowly and meticulously rebuilds the layers of control around himself, hardly certain who they are intended to protect.

  
-:-

  
Jim thumbs the buzzer to Spock's room and then jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He feels like an ass about the day before. Sure, they'd got a lot of work done, but he'd all but begged Spock to sit through a lovely little dysfunctional scene with his mother and then taken up the entirety of his evening with a debate on border politics, two games of bad chess and a batch of pseudo cocoa. He'd planned an apology for this morning but hadn't counted on EPAS to ruin it.

Spock answers the door with tea in one hand, his face tinged green with cold. Behind him, the screen to the balcony stands open.

"Pike commed me first thing," Jim explains. "He wants us on the next shuttle to Luna. Apparently he's been summoned to _Ql'tomer_ and won't be around for the Council meeting tomorrow. We've got to speak on his behalf."

Spock's eyebrows descend slowly. "This is unexpected."

"Tell me about it."

Spock negotiates the colloquialism with only the slightest pause. "Could the Admiral not attend the meeting and then acquire transport to the Klingon Neutral Zone aboard the _Stalwart?_ "

"No," Jim shakes his head. "Apparently, the Minister for Health wants him on _Nuh'ri Ah'rak_ before _Ql'tomer_. Some other ship is going to get him there, then we'll take him the final leg into hostile territory."

"The Vulcan colony requires EPAS?" Spock's other eyebrow joins the first.

"Not exactly. Pike said he'd explain in his office."

Spock sets the mug down on a small table, steps into the corridor and closes the door behind him. "Then let us depart."

Having anticipated Spock's instant reaction, Jim makes directly for the elevator bank. "Thought you might say that."

  
-:-

  
"Spock, Jim," Pike waves them over from where he's sitting in an armchair, sorting through reports and manifests. "Before you say anything, let me apologize."

"Sir, if this is about my mother ..."

"No," Pike frowns, "although I _do_ feel a bit guilty about that, she's just your mother. Man up, Jim. I'm talking about the Council meeting tomorrow."

"Okay."

"You wish us to speak in your stead?" Spock asks for confirmation.

"Yes," Pike switches his gaze from one to the other. "You, specifically, Spock. Jim, I want you there, but I want you to keep your big mouth shut, understood?"

"Aye, sir. Don't embarrass you in front of your friends. Got it."

Pike glares at him, but it's affectionate. "President Wescott needs our support, but more than that, he needs the weight of evidence on his side. The Council have been briefed on the military side of things by Starfleet, but you know the Admiralty; they're either minimizing the perceived threat or maximizing it, depending on how the situation can be turned to their own advantage."

"Which mode are they in?" Jim gestures Spock to the couch ahead of him, taking up his own place on the other cushion.

"Ostrich mode."

"Shit."

Spock glances between the two humans, clearly at a loss. Both Pike and Jim launch into an explanation at the same time, then halt, stare at each other and share a smile. The Admiral gestures for Jim to continue, a strange warmth in his eyes.

"Figure of speech," Jim summarizes. "To put your head in the sand like an ostrich; to ignore the obvious despite potential disadvantage."

"I see."

Jim turns back to Pike. "Surely the casualty and material damages reports alone will show what we're really up against?"

"Statistics are malleable," the Admiral reminds him. "Starfleet's premise is unsound, but the bottom line still looks optimistic."

Jim huffs through his nose. "I always said statistics isn't really a science. Sideshow, more like. What kind of math has imaginary numbers?"

"Jim."

"I'm right, though, yeah?"

"The point is, the EPAS report might be the only first-hand account of things the Federation Council are going to hear. It needs to be watertight. It needs to make an impact. It needs to shine forth like a goddamn beacon of truth, you understand?"

Jim shares a glance with Spock, because fuck. "Um, maybe we should take another look at it?"

"Damn straight," Pike nods, handing them a flimsy print out of their first draft. "I've highlighted a few sections and made some suggestions."

Spock accepts the pages, his eyes scanning the document and then lifting to the Admiral's face, the blankness in them studied and perfect. "EPAS do not customarily comment on Fleet deployment, tactics or threat assessments."

"No, but maybe we should," Pike counters. "It's our asses on the line out there, just as much as Starfleet crew, and losses are high across the board. Maybe it's about time we started telling the brass when they're getting it wrong. Most of the Council aren't military men, they're politicians. Spock, make an appeal to their sense of right and wrong." Pike leans forward, elbows resting on his calipers. "You've got to get inside their heads and make them realize that the voting public are going to figure out what's happening eventually. The problem is I don't think that's going to occur before Nero comes knocking on our front door."

"Or before the Klingons start turning on the border worlds," Jim interjects.

"Right," Pike agrees with a sharp nod. "Why do you think I'm going to New Vulcan?"

Spock straightens, lowers the flimsies to his lap. " _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ is located less than two sectors from the Klingon Netural Zone."

"Which is why we need the Council to send the Diplomatic Corps to Khitomer," Pike replies. "And why I need the Vulcan High Council to come clean about what they're doing with the _Tat'sar_ and convince the Federation Council to move forward with negotiations with the Klingon Empire. This new threat is real. It's going to hit us where it hurts."

Jim slouches into the couch, knees splayed wide. "This is one hell of a presentation you're asking for, especially since _I_ don't even know what the _Tat'sar's_ mission _is_ , or how Vulcan is involved."

Pike's eyes are piercing. "I'm fully aware of that."

Spock reaches out with one hand, rests fingertips on the transparent table top. He doesn't touch Pike, but it is still a question, an entreaty. Jim feels awkward witnessing it, is forced to swallow a sharp surge of jealousy when Pike's face softens a little and he nods.

"Very well, Spock. I trust your judgement."

Stiffly, formally, Spock stands. "In that case, it is imperative that we begin redrafting the presentation immediately."

"Agreed." Pike levers himself to his feet, using the arm of the chair to steady himself. "My flight leaves in six hours. No matter where I am when you finish your final draft, it comes to me. I don't care if you're forced to develop a way of transmitting documents trans-warp, I want to see it, clear?"

"Indeed."

"As crystal," Jim seconds.

"Okay, get out of my office. You've got work to do," he grumbles, making shooing movements. "Oh, and Jim?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

Pike has the grace to look a little bit guilty, finally. "I didn't realize she'd hunt you down, sorry about that."

"Hell, I thought she was in the Eridani Sector," Jim holds his hands out, eyes wide, impressed against his will.

"She was," Pike grins. "You've got one hell of a mother there, Jim."

"Don't remind me."

  
-:-

  
"Okay," says Jim, bouncing on his toes in the line as they endure Earth/Luna customs for the fourth time in twenty four hours, "your touchy-feely moment with Pike means you can tell me all about the _Tat'sar_ , right?"

Spock gives him a look that can only be described as long-suffering by his standards. It lasts at least point five of a second longer than his usual looks and involves a slight tightening of his mouth. "His permission was not explicit."

"But how am I supposed to help you with the presentation if I don't have all the information? Plus, aren't you going to blow the whole thing wide open when you tell the Council tomorrow?" Jim really hopes it doesn't sound like he's pleading.

"You may recall that members of the Federation Council have UltraViolet security clearance status," Spock says, as though to a particularly dense child. "You, however, do not."

"Neither do you."

Spock rolls his thumb across the customs pad and says nothing.

"Wait, do you?" Jim jabs his thumb into the screen and then jogs a few steps to catch up.

"Being the son of the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth results in some unusual privileges."

"You totally do!"

"It is a great responsibility," Spock says repressively as they emerge from the SanFran spaceport and into the wintry sun.

"Won't tell a soul about shifty Vulcan politics," Jim grins, then holds out his closest hand, smallest finger crooked. "Promise."

Spock stops in his tracks to frown down at Jim's hand. "What, precisely ..."

"Never mind," he grins, clapping Spock on the shoulder instead. "I'm hungry. Tell me all about it over breakfast."

Bristling slightly, Spock regains his centre of gravity after Jim's enthusiastic gesture. "Acceptable. Although, if you wish me to divulge classified information, we shall have to choose our venue with care."

"Bagel place on the corner of the park. If we walk and talk it will make it pretty hard for anyone to eavesdrop."

"Logical," says Spock.

He allows Jim to take the lead, falling half a step behind. It makes for easier going through the peak hour throng, but still makes Jim slightly uncomfortable. He's been feeling off balance since he disembarked the _Stalwart_ two days ago. Being home again, even if it's just the right planet rather than in the right town, has set his teeth on edge. He deliberately left a lot behind when he first ventured into space, being back in San Francisco is only reminding him of his wild Academy days and all the self-destructive egotism of the person he used to be. He irrationally fears that Spock will discover the depths of his historic idiocy by simple association with the city. It's ridiculous, but he feels like Spock has come visiting his old family home in Iowa, complete with all the girlie posters and team pennants plastered across his bedroom wall.

He pauses at an intersection, momentarily disorientated before his natural sense of direction asserts itself. "This way," he says, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck self-consciously.

The bagel place is just as popular as ever, so they have to line up. It gives Jim a chance to focus on something new, and he scans the menu with a dedication that bakery goods don't really deserve. He buys two blueberry with sour cream and hands one to Spock as they head into the park. The Commander holds it, but does not eat it.

"So, you going to let me in on the big secret? Who exactly is Sarek, and what was he doing in charge of Vulcan's finest?" he manages to ask around a mouthful.

"You have accused me of believing what I saw in the mind meld too easily," Spock begins, staring straight ahead, his bagel still wrapped in its napkin. "Perhaps now it will become clear why belief was my only option."

"I know Sarek can be pretty convincing. Hell," Jim grins, "he was always goading me about signing up for Starfleet, and I wasn't really the type for following anyone's advice."

"It is confusing to refer to him by the name of my father," Spock interrupts, "and yet I do not know what else to call him."

"If he's got another name, use it."

"Spock," says Spock.

They pause where two paths diverge for Jim to swallow his mouthful and lick his fingertips. "Bullshit."

"We are essentially the same person," Spock continues seriously, "previously living in two separate, divergent timelines."

Jim continues to chew, glances down at the remains of his bagel and pitches it into a trash can. "An alternate universe? Holy shit," he says, and rather calmly, too, thank you very much. "Since he's the older one, I take it you're not the impostor?"

"He has no intent to pose in my place, even should the circumstance of our disparate ages be explicable, or indeed, relevant to your deduction."

"So, there's seriously two of you?" Jim persists, staring hard at the Commander's face and clawing at the edges of his sanity with desperate mental fingers.

"Do you require a moment to compose yourself?"

Jim shakes his head, ignoring Spock's preemptive step towards a park bench. "No, I think we're on the same page. Two Spocks, different universes, divergent timelines, I hear you."

Spock's eyes narrow and Jim wonders if he interprets the words as ridicule. "You are quick to accept the veracity of my statement."

Jim spreads his cream cheese covered fingers. "Am I supposed to believe you're _joking?_ "

Both eyebrows lift. "Agreed; I would not."

"Okay," Jim wrestles with the napkin and the leftover cheese, "so what were you doing in charge of the _Tat'sar_ , what the hell was with those people on board and ..." he pauses, grips Spock by the arm. "Holy shit, you taught me Vulcan!"

"My counterpart taught you our language," Spock corrects him. "I did not."

Jim's surprised face morphs into a wide grin. "No wonder you liked my accent."

"I expressed no partiality."

"And oh my god, you knew me as a pimply kid!" Jim buries his face in his hands, napkin pressed to his temple in a renewed fit of acopia. "This is so fucking embarrassing."

"Jim," Spock all-but sighs. "I feel it is imperative that we establish some way for you to mentally distinguish between myself and my counterpart."

"Totally," he nods vehemently, "absolutely, it's far too weird otherwise. I'm not calling him your 'counterpart,' though; it sounds ridiculous."

"Let us refer to him as Prime, since he is older than I, and the mathematical reference seems appropriate."

"Taking de Polignac's Conjecture, does that make you guys twin primes?" Jim can't resist, knowing that Spock will get the reference instantly, and know what he means to imply; that Spock is no less important, mathematically or otherwise.

Spock gives him the look that Jim privately refers to as the 'well done human, you have exceeded expectations' look. "If we can focus on the preparation of our report?" he says instead.

Jim nods, kind of glad when Spock continues his narrative, because he has the sneaking suspicion he just flirted. Using mathematics. And that it worked. With a mental shake, he falls back into step and listens to Spock's succinct explanation.

"Prime arrived in this timeline too late to prevent the destruction of the _USS Kelvin_. However, due to the friendship he shared with your counterpart in the alternate universe, he took it upon himself to work towards your wellbeing, where possible."

"Wait, we were friends in the other timeline?"

Spock nods. "For many years, until your death."

"Oh," Jim sobers instantly. "Well, that sucks."

"Vulcans live longer than humans," Spock reminds him. "It is to be expected."

"I'm allowed a moment to regret my own death, okay?"

Spock chooses to ignore him. "Given Prime's experiences in other alternate timelines, he had already come to the conclusion that the destruction of Vulcan was unavoidable."

"Timelines, plural?" Jim frowns. "Just how many alternate universes has this guy gate-crashed, anyway?"

"Four that I detected."

Jim whistles.

"Prime postulates that Nero's deployment of his energy weapon at the exact moment Red Matter caused the Romulan star to implode may have resulted in multiple versions of the _Narada_ being sent to multiple alternative universes, ours being one of them, whereas Prime himself remained only a single individual, due to the infinitesimal time delay between the moments they breached the singularity."

"What the hell is Red Matter?" Jim screws his eyes shut and makes an exasperated gesture with one hand. "You _suck_ at telling stories, seriously. Start from the beginning."

"The nature of 'the beginning' is open to interpretation," Spock objects.

"Okay, well, at least explain as you go, or draw diagrams, or something."

Spock looks at him askance. "Red Matter is a future technology developed by the Vulcan Science Academy for the purpose of creating a singularity. Its use was purely experimental at the time that Prime was called upon to utilize it to protect the planet Romulus from the impeding supernova of its primary star." Spock folds his hands in the small of his back, the bagel sticking out, carefully held to avoid contact with his clothing. "Prime incorrectly calculated the time required to succeed in this endeavour and the entire Romulan System was obliterated by the resulting supernova. Mentally imbalanced by grief and rage, Nero turned on Prime and in the ensuing battle, and both crafts were unable to escape the singularity."

Jim catches Spock's arm again, needing to convey the importance of understanding the whole mess correctly. "So you're saying that this is Nero's secret weapon? The thing he's using to destroy entire worlds, entire solar systems, it's Red Matter?"

"Affirmative."

"And Vulcans created it?"

"In an alternate timeline, yes."

Jim catches Spock's guarded expression and puffs his cheeks out in a huge sigh. "This will _not_ sound good in our presentation."

"I am aware."

"And the _Tat'sar?_ " Jim forges on stoically, figuring it's better to get it all out in one go and then recover.

"Her mission is to retrieve displaced survivors using future technology to track and interpret the fault lines created by the breach between the many alternate universes created by the massive singularity. Although Captain Senekot is responsible for the ship's defenses, the duties are minimal, and Prime is the commander of the vessel outside direct conflict."

"The refugees on board, they were from different universes?" Jim can't hide his interest. "That's so cool."

"I doubt they share your enthusiasm, stranded as they are."

"Of course," Jim sobers instantly. "What a mess."

They have reached the opposite edge of the park. Spock pulls the bagel out from behind his back and regards it with scientific interest. Jim watches Spock watching the bagel and comes to the conclusion they are in way over their heads. Getting the Federation Council to whip Starfleet into gear, change their deployment tactics, recognize the very real threat of a Romulan/Klingon alliance and get over the fact that Vulcans sort of, kind of, maybe created the problem in the first place ... it's going to take one hell of a presentation. He wants to ask Spock how Pike expects them to accomplish all that, instead, he points at the bagel in Spock's hands.

"You going to eat that or take notes on it?"

"Neither," says Spock as he begins walking in the direction of their hotel.

  
-:-

  
It's late that night, or early the following morning, depending on how you choose to look at it. Jim rubs at tired eyes with the back of his hand, pushing his reading glasses to an odd angle across his face. "Is that it?"

"I believe we have accomplished all that is possible," Spock accedes, voice slightly hoarse from the debating they've done.

"Thank god," Jim throws the glasses haphazardly across the table top, trusting to plassteel frames and scratch-proof lenses. "Because I feel like my brain is leaking out my ears."

"A very distasteful metaphor."

"Deal," Jim advises, leaning back against the couch and straightening his legs on the carpet. He's on the verge of cursing Spock's predilection for working on the floor, but knows he's tired and probably bitchy, so takes a long swallow of water instead. As if that last mouthful finally flushes through the previous liter, he gets to his feet with a cracking and popping of joints.

"I need to use the head."

On his way back, Jim disdains the hand-dryer, shaking off the excess water and wiping his hands down his jeans instead. He pauses at the entrance to the main room, finding Spock still sitting on the floor, the bridge of his nose held between thumb and forefinger.

"Headache?"

"Fatigue," Spock corrects him. "I am unaccustomed to the intensity of today's mental exertions."

"You should sleep."

"Affirmative."

"I should go."

"Jim?"

"Yes?" he pauses awkwardly, bent over to retrieve his jacket from the floor.

"I have come to the conclusion that Admiral Pike's trust in my abilities may have been misplaced," Spock admits from his cross-legged pose on the floor. "You are a more persuasive individual than I; it is only logical that you be the one to address the Council later today."

Jim straightens slowly, crosses back to the couch, flops down next to Spock so his knees are level with the Commander's chin. "No," he says firmly. "I'd only get angry, which hurts our cause. You'll convince them with cold logic. Irrefutable fact. Pike got it right; you're the guy." Then he grins. "You think I'm persuasive?"

Spock tilts his head, meets his eyes. "Very."

Jim's mouth goes dry. It's probably an innocent observation of fact, a simple, meaningless word, but he's so damn tired and wrong-footed that it sounds like a whole lot more. Spock is watching him impassively, waiting for whatever comes next. Jim can't help noticing the way the lamplight illuminates the strong lines of his face, the blue-blackness of his hair. In his head, he leans forward and tests a theory, reclaims a memory, but in reality he just grips Spock's shoulder and squeezes.

"Get some sleep."

Spock nods. "You also."

Jim drags his hand away, his eyes away, snatches up his jacket and his PADD and gets the hell out. He closes the door firmly behind himself, leans against it, tense and yet relieved. "Keep walking," he whispers aloud.

A few seconds tick by and he swallows thickly, pushing off into the hall, putting a couple more steps between them, like it makes a difference. His mind is babbling incoherently, posing theories about touch telepathy and clothing, Vulcan shields and emotional transference. He remembers the unexpected firmness of Spock's lips under his own and the fierce grip of hot hands around his throat. He fumbles the code to his room and has to re-enter it. His fingertips leave little dabs of perspiration on the screen. The place is dark and cold and utterly devoid of Vulcans.

Angrily, he stalks past the replicator, choosing to ignore the twenty different alcoholic beverages it's programmed to produce. A hangover is no cure for his ills. He strips, barks a heating order at the computer and jams his head through a faded henley before tumbling into bed in that and his boxers. The sheets are cold and stiff against his skin, sucking the warmth out of him. He stares resolutely at the wall, knowing it's unwise to close his eyes.

Minutes later, the worst of the chill is out of the air and his body has warmed the bed enough that his muscles relax a little. He wishes his mind could follow suit. He laughs through his nose, rolling onto his back in the darkness and shaking his head at his own stupidity. A Vulcan _and_ his superior officer? Crazy, but he wants Spock. It's pretty damn clear. Perhaps the only thing that saved him from getting transferred before was the fact that he hadn't come to that realization when they kissed. It would have read to Spock like simple insanity; an impulsive, irrational human gesture. Now that Jim knows better, yeah, different story.

He massages his eyeballs until he sees stars, wondering which would be worse; telling Spock outright and getting shot down, or being randomly hauled into an office one day to address the 'inappropriate feelings' Spock has detected during the next time they accidentally touch.

"Fuck my life," Jim groans. "Seriously, of all the fucking people on the ship, it has to be him."

But of course, it _does_ have to be Spock, that's precisely the point.

 


	21. chapter 4.4

Jim has had enough sleepless nights to know that nothing will totally dispel the thick feeling in his head or the heaviness in his eyes. Discounting the potential for being amped up on stims at the Council meeting, which he does _not_ think is a good idea, he's left with only coffee to shore up the deficit between hours spent awake and asleep. He's really wishing he hadn't got up early that first day.

The only good thing about feeling so crap is simply being unable to muster the energy to think about his Spock dilemma. In fact, when he ambles across the corridor, PADD tucked under his arm and his third cup of strong coffee in hand, he only manages a grunt in lieu of a greeting. He's strangely self-satisfied by that. You don't grunt at someone you're crushing on, it's a rule or something. Maybe he was just tired and a little stressed the night before. He genuinely entertains that concept until he realizes Spock has only his undershirt on, and...fuck.

Jim scowls, shoves the PADD into Spock's chest and pushes past him. "I need more coffee."

"Your cup is full."

Jim downs the rest of the scalding brew like a shot and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "Wrong."

Spock crosses back to the kitchen bench, laying the PADD down with a plastic click while he shrugs into his overshirt. Jim turns back to see the last short, sharp tugs he employs to settle the garment, DivCO tabs glinting in the overhead lights.

"You ready for this?"

Spock looks up. "There is little alternative."

"Oh yeah, feel the confidence."

"Jim, it is highly unlikely the Council will reach a conclusion on this matter today, but should they, I have calculated only a forty-two percent likelihood of our major suggestions being actioned, and a mere seventeen percent chance that all our concerns will be adequately addressed. In light of this, a certain amount of realism is appropriate."

He claps a hand to Spock's shoulder, steers him towards the door. "For god's sake don't give them those statistics."

"To do so would be counterproductive."

"No shit."

"And thus, illogical."

  
-:-

  
Jim tries not to fidget during Starfleet's presentation, but they've got their facts wrong and it makes his skin crawl. The young Captain who's giving the address looks sincere enough, forcing Jim to entertain the possibility that he really just doesn't understand what's really going on. They're not winning, they're not even holding their own. On a good day, they don't get their asses handed to them and on a bad one there's nobody left for EPAS to save.

"Statistics," he sighs under his breath.

Spock's eyes dart to the left, a clear invitation for him to shut the hell up.

The assembled Federation Council consists of President Wescott, a distinguished-looking middle aged man with a tan and silvered hair. Jim likes him better in person than in the vids, the various Ministers and planetary representatives, military figures including Admiral Komack and a smattering of civilian interests, including EPAS. Pike's wife, Jessica, sits in his chair, in a nominal capacity only. As a speaker on today's, Spock is not entitled to substitute himself for the Admiral due to a perceived conflict of interest which Jim doesn't quite understand.

Even without Komack in the line-up, they would have been a difficult bunch to sway. The young Minister for Health, Sarah Lawson, is only sitting in on the Security Council's meeting due to the fact that EPAS has lobbied so hard to have her there, Pike amongst the most vocal and adamant that civilian security interests such as EPAS and the United Federation Center for Refugees and Displaced Peoples have to have a voice in military decisions. She is the lone sheep amongst the wolves, but if her confident posture and keen expression are anything to go by, Jim guesses she'll hold her own.

Lawson stands when the Starfleet Captain has finished his address. A new hush falls. "Mr. President, Ministers, Delegates and guest speakers," she begins firmly. "I call upon the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service's Prime Division representative, Commander Spock, to speak on behalf of Admiral Pike."

"That's quite a mouthful," Jim mutters.

Spock pushes to his feet, ignoring him completely. "Thank you, Minister," he inclines his head to the room, forgoing lengthy introductions with an inherent graciousness that few could get away with. Jim forces himself to relax into his seat. The report is the best it can possibly be and Spock is a good speaker. This is their best shot.

"I regret to inform the Council that EPAS findings on border tensions differ greatly from those of Starfleet Intelligence," Spock says calmly, with no heat or judgement in his words. A simple statement of fact is all it is, but Komack still frowns mightily.

"EPAS has a unique perspective on recent conflicts, fleet deployment, resource management and military losses. We are present at nearly every major confrontation or arrive at the scene soon afterward, often staying in the region far longer than Starfleet personnel as part of the aid effort or refugee support programs. In order to most effectively deploy our two main Divisions, Prime and Beta, EPAS have long adhered to a custom of collecting and analyzing as much conflict data as possible. A full breakdown of our multi-faceted analysis is available in both quantitative and qualitative perspectives from your terminals now." He pauses to confirm with tech support that this has been facilitated.

Although Minister Lawson has doubtless already seen the report thanks to Pike, she makes a show of skimming the abstract and conclusion sections along with everyone else. If Jim wasn't used to interpreting Vulcan expressions, he might have missed the slightest nod she allows herself. Yeah, their findings are no surprise to her.

"The threat posed by the criminal Nero has long been recognized by this Council, and indeed the Federation as a whole," he pauses significantly.

The young representative from Vulcan appears unaffected by the reference to Vulcan-that-was. Spock's father is doubtless tied up in what Pike is dealing with on _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ , and has sent an alternative representative from his office as Ambassador. Jim spares a moment to regret Sarek's absence. From the little he's seen and heard, Spock's father would have been a valuable asset today. Vulcans had already lost more than anyone else, and stood to lose even more if the EPAS analysis of the situation was correct.

"What has not been adequately quantified by Starfleet Intelligence is the very real and present danger posed by the Klingon Empire," Spock cuts to the heart of the matter, not batting an eyelid over the emotive terminology Jim had insisted upon. "Late last month, while the Federation was occupied with the unfortunate events that took place on Robicon IV, Nero and his fleet of Romulan Extremists launched a major and ultimately successful strike against the heart of Klingon space." Spock pauses again here, and Jim knows it is because he disagrees with the hyperbole that is to follow. "Essentially, the Klingon Empire is no more."

A furious muttering erupts along the Council table, as one by one, each of the representatives turns to their aides, their terminals or their earpieces to verify Spock's claim. Jim is counting on the fact that just as EPAS can't indisputably prove it has happened, neither can anyone disprove it. There is a long-standing acknowledgement amongst Intelligence communities that acquiring accurate data on Klingons is next to impossible. Violent and paranoid, they have tighter territorial control than any other species and are renowned for being trigger-happy. In recent times, with the Romulan threat dominating the scene, little to no inroads have been made into bettering information sources. Still, everyone has heard the rumours and seen the rapid increase in decentralized Klingon activity along the Neutral Zone.

"Can you support this claim?" Minister Lawson asks, clearly timing her question to cut off an impending tirade from Komack.

It is a question Jim has been dreading.

"While we can support it, Minister, it is not possible to prove it unequivocally," Spock admits.

"It is unwise to formulate opinion upon incomplete data," Sarek's replacement pronounces sternly. "Your logic is flawed."

"Elder," Spock chooses the Vulcan form of address as a sign of respect, but does not bow his head. "In these uncertain times, all of us are called upon to utilize what limited data we possess in order to draw the most likely conclusions. In doing so, we act to preserve the lives of our people and those others under our protection. Should we choose to wait for indisputable proof of the Klingon situation, it is likely that any action we then take would be insufficient to halt the destabilization of the Neutral Zone and the subsequent collapse of our combined military forces."

The two Vulcans stare at each other for a few moments and there is a sense of collectively-held breath. Then slowly, with great consideration, the Ambassador's aide inclines his head. "I acknowledge the necessity you have described, as well as the apparent veracity of the data you have collated. It is Vulcan's assumption that the Klingon Empire has been dissolved through direct military confrontation with Romulan forces."

"What?" Komack snaps, leaning forward to stare down the table. "You're not authorized to make decisions like that!"

"Indeed, I am."

Jim hides a small fist-pump and mentally urges Spock to continue before the livid Admiral steals the limelight.

"The Federation stands to lose much if the Klingon threat goes unaddressed," Spock interjects neatly. "You can see from our projection that many colonized worlds lie along the simulated front of engagement. If Nero were to take advantage of the Federation mandate to protect civilian lives, it would be logical for him to lead his fleet through this periphery, bypassing the need for direct confrontation with Starfleet forces until he is able to engage us from the flank, or the rear." Spock pinpoints this on the holographic map. "Predicted casualties from such a battle rival those of the first days of this ongoing confrontation."

"It doesn't escape me that New Vulcan lies within your projected threat area," Komack drawls, his eyes narrowed. "Or that your report _clearly_ indicates that Vulcans themselves are responsible for the creation of Nero's secret weapon, this ..." he glances down at his terminal and spits out the term with distaste, " _Red Matter_."

Spock turns his head. "Admiral, it is unlikely to have escaped any of us."

"And Pike let you speak, with bias like that?" Komack chuckles and glances at the other Council members. "This is a clear conflict of interest."

The Vulcan representative straightens almost imperceptibly, but Jim doesn't miss it.

"Admiral Komack," Spock says coldly, drawing all eyes back to him. " _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ does indeed like within the threat area, as does the Andorian, Robii and Elatsian homeworlds, not to mention interspecies colonies too numerous to mention. Would you suggest that any of their representatives should be disqualified for bias? Or indeed, that with Nero advancing further into Federation space every day, that any one of us, regardless of our racial affiliation, can be said to be uncompromised?"

Nobody seems willing to meet anybody else's eye across the Council table, except for Komack, who glares angrily at Spock. "This is a Security Council, not a diplomatic caucus, and while I'd never thought to see the day a Vulcan would stand before me confessing to emotional compromise, that's precisely what you've done. You are dismissed, Commander, on grounds of unsuitability."

The Minister for Health looks affronted and Spock shifts subtly, the change in stance a clear indicator to Jim that he is unsure how to proceed.

"I respectfully submit that whilst I am Vulcan and Red Matter was ..."

"Commander," Komack says coldly. "Your concerns have been heard. If EPAS is serious about all this, then let them send someone who is qualified to speak without manipulating the facts to suit their own ends."

"Perhaps I have not adequately expressed the ramifications of an armed and disenfranchised Klingon presence," Spock persists, knuckles blanching in the small of his back. "If Federation forces find themselves occupied on two fronts, the result ..."

The Admiral all but stands in his seat. "You overstep the mark, Spock. Don't presume to lecture this Council on matters of war when you have never served in one."

"Is it necessary to have fought in a war in order to have participated?" Spock's tone is flat, biting. "As a member of EPAS Prime Division, I have been present either during or immediately after nearly every major confrontation with the Romulan criminal Nero. Am I to believe that this experience counts for nothing simply because my mission is to preserve life rather than to take it?"

"By that measure, we might as well all sit here and listen to a catering yeoman's theories on how best to deploy our fleet." Komack's voice is scathing. "Or perhaps I should ask one of the maintenance engineers to reveal the nature of Nero's superior warp capability?"

Spock tilts his head and quirks one eyebrow in the way Jim knows spells trouble for the person on the receiving end. "You may find yourself significantly enlightened should you choose to do so."

"I don't care for your tone, Commander!" Komack turns a dangerous shade of red.

The look on Spock's face suggests there is a lot he doesn't care for right now, but with visible effort, he nods once in acceptance. "With the Council's permission?"

"I think we're done here," Komack says quickly.

The Admiral doesn't even bother with consent from around the table, which is a measure of Starfleet's current political influence that makes Jim furious. Minister Lawson catches his eye and makes a small suppressing motion with one hand. Jim nods, acknowledging but not really processing it or its implications. Komack's stubborn refusal to entertain the new threat is mind-blowing. Jim has the feeling that once he's regained use of his body he's going to have a few choice things to say. As it turns out, Spock beats him to it.

With a glare that is definitely short of respectful, he raises his hand in the _ta'al_ and says tightly, "live long and prosper."

Before Jim has a chance to process the apoplectic look on Komack's face or the stunned expression on Lawson's, Spock's long fingers are digging into his elbow, propelling him out of the Council chambers with the urgency of someone with a lot to say and the intelligence to realize there are better places to say it. Jim allows himself to be led, having little alternative.

  
-:-

  
Back in the hotel, Spock pauses in his pacing and raises two steepled index fingers to his lips. "This development heralds a significant increase in risk for all field personnel."

Jim rouses himself from his stupor long enough to bury his head in his hands. "We are so fucked."

Dark eyes flick his way, but Spock does not correct him, just starts pacing again. That in itself is strange enough, as Jim can't remember ever seeing him unsettled enough to give into such a demonstrative method of coping with stress. Spock has been busy wearing holes in the carpet, punctuated only by silent but pregnant pauses, whilst Jim is on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, slouched low so his head is level with the cushions.

He raises his head, sandy hair sticking up at right angles. "What are we going to do?"

Spock glances at him as he stalks past. "I do not know."

"We can't just let them ignore the threat."

"They seem intent upon doing so."

"Yeah well, it's not them who are going to be out there in the middle of this mess, it's us," Jim says, offended. "They get to sit here in their offices and shake their heads about how it might have been a good idea to, oh, I don't know, actually _read_ our report, but you'll be scraping me off a bulkhead somewhere for Bones to package up and post to my mom."

That brings Spock to an abrupt halt. "I will not allow that to happen."

"You're going to make the Council vote to send a peace envoy into the Klingon Neutral Zone?"

Spock spreads his hands. "I am unable to devise a method by which that could be accomplished."

"That's because we don't have one," Jim sighs. "There just isn't one. It's a no win scenario."

The words fall on the suddenly silent air like a death sentence. The two stare at one another, taking stock of the shape of things to come. It's dangerous out there already, in the places they do their job, the fragile and ever-shifting lines separating the safe from the suicidal. Adding a horde of angry, displaced Klingons to the mix isn't going to help, and that's the personal angle, let alone the wider consequences.

"If only Pike were on the Council," Jim bemoans aloud.

"He is not," Spock all but snaps. "Nor is he available for consultation. It is up to us."

"Well, apparently we're not good enough."

Spock looks at him with worried eyes, large and brown under an impressive frown.

Jim lets his head fall back, eyes up to the ceiling, feeling the wrongness of that coalesce in his chest; a pulsing kernel of anger and rebellion. He doesn't believe in the no-win, hasn't _let_ himself believe in it, but in order to come out on top he needs to change the parameters of the situation and he has no power to do so. A Federation ambassador at _Ql'tomer_ is the switch in the tracks that could redirect this runaway fuck-up, but he can't make it happen, knows nobody who can.

Suddenly, punctuated by a frisson of apprehension, several things fall into place in his mind. With something akin to fear, Jim raises his head again and catches Spock's eye. The Commander senses his mood easily enough, has seen that look of revelation before. An eyebrow asks the question.

Jim licks his lips. "Your father's an Ambassador, right?"

Spock simply nods.

"What would it take for Vulcan to send an Ambassador like your father without Federation approval?" Jim asks, and watches carefully.

Spock stares at him. "Such action is unprecedented."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, you guys were out there kicking ass and taking names long before we'd even made it to the moon. I'd call that a pretty big precedent."

Spock acknowledges this with a flicker of his brows and a tilt of his head. "The High Council has chosen to respect the diplomatic boundaries set in place by the Federation Treaty and no longer act independently in such matters. The motivation required to alter that decision would be significant indeed."

"But it could be done?" Jim presses, leaning forward on the couch, hands gripping his knees.

"In theory," Spock capitulates, then his eyes narrow. "You have a plan."

"No," Jim shakes his head, frustrated but inexplicably hopeful. "Not a plan, just hope and the bare bones of an idea." He stands, suddenly gripped by Spock's restlessness. "I can't even articulate it," he sighs angrily, "but it's there. All I need is something to bring it into focus."

"Perhaps, with time ..."

"Time is the one thing we don't have."

Spock is suddenly the still one, the calm one, when he counsels, "it is illogical to expect a solution to present itself fully formed and requiring no deliberation."

Jim reaches out, grins, claps him on the shoulder. "That's what all my best ideas are like. I'm going for a run." He snatches up his jacket and strides to the door, buzzing with energy. "Perhaps that will do the trick."

"We have less than two hours before the end of Shore Leave," Spock reminds him.

Jim just shrugs and says, "some fucking holiday, right?" and leaves Spock standing in the middle of the room.

  
-:-

  
Jim runs. He runs and runs until his throat burns and his chest aches, conscious of time running out in more ways than one. Komack's voice wars with Spock's in his head, and all the while he can't shake the notion that he's missing a crucial piece to their puzzle. He knows how to shift the Council's paradigm, understands what motivates them if not the self-serving agenda behind it, but lacks a fulcrum to throw his weight upon. Still angry, he takes the hotel stairs two at a time, breath coming hard and echoing in the enclosed space. He showers briskly, the water cooler than he normally favours, still feeling hot from exertion and furious thinking.

He dresses and packs in silence, the rasp of zippers and shift of his uniform the only soundtrack to his ongoing search for answers. The books he'd hoped to store sit in a pile on the bed. He replicates a box, addresses it to his mother's place in Iowa and leaves it with reception on his way out. She might not unpack them for him, but she won't throw them out, either. Besides, it's even money on which one of them goes home first. As far as he knows, it's been five years since she's been to Riverside.

Spock is waiting for him in the lobby. As he walks up, Jim considers saying something about it not being necessary, but truthfully, he appreciates it, so he shuts the hell up.

"Back to work?" He smiles at the irony and shoulders his single bag.

Spock says nothing, has probably sent his bag ahead, and simply falls into step on the way out of the rotating doors.

The shuttle to Luna is packed, and they're forced to stand. Jim spends the trip staring at the back of Spock's head. It reminds him uncomfortably of their second meeting, not in a Vegan ocean, but in the selfsame spaceport they've just left. How it could be only just shy of two years ago, Jim has no idea. Who he was then, who he imagined he might become, is so far from the reality he's living that it's almost incomprehensible. Unconsciously, his mind skips tracks, finally abandoning the frustration of politics and battle lines. What could have been a terminally boring ride becomes an introspective exercise instead. Yeah, sure, everything is going to shit and they're all probably going to end up subjugated or dead, but it might be possible that he's finally, _finally_ found his niche.

He really loves his job, which is weird since it's gruelling and dangerous and hardly ever appreciated outside of an immediate sense. He's not making headlines or changing the world, but he _is_ making a tangible difference; one he can see. He loves the people he works with. They're insane and brilliant and some of the bravest people he's ever met. They've influenced him more during his time aboard the _Stalwart_ than nearly anyone else has in the years before. He has a home, even if it's constantly moving, and friends to share it with. He has a life that's worth something. He has people to look up to and a healthy share of respect himself. What's more, he feels like he's earned it. Nothing in EPAS is taken on face value, nothing is ever assumed. Whatever he is among them is what he's carved out for himself, absent the legacy of family or reputation. Surrounded by rigid discipline, endless hard work and little material reward, he honestly feels comfortable just being Jim Kirk.

He disembarks dazedly at Luna, haunted by the feeling that he's just had an epiphany, but the nature of it remains hazy and insubstantial. Spock looks at him strangely, which is to say that Spock spends more than half a second doing it.

"Are you well?"

Jim frowns. "I just spent twenty minutes studying your hairline and now I think my life makes sense."

"Incredible," Spock replies, probably in the literal sense.

"Come on," Jim encourages, lightly touching him on the elbow. "Let's go home."

 


	22. chapter 4.5

It's inevitable, of course, that they run headlong into a battle on their way to _Nu'ri Ah'rak_. Looking back on it, Jim supposes he should have seen it coming. The weeks of tidying up little skirmishes along the ever-moving borders of this conflict has left both sides spoiling for a decisive confrontation. What he doesn't expect is to be up on the bridge with Spock, talking to the Captain, when it happens.

They drop out of warp at a waypoint, ready for their next course correction, when suddenly the air is full of wailing sirens. The deck leaps beneath their feet as the _Stalwart_ plows through debris. He's thrown to his knees, sees Spock ricochet off the navigation console, steadying himself, white-fingered, by its edge.

"Red Alert!" Taylor yells, hands tight on the arms of his chair. "Ops, report!"

Gaila swivels in her chair, finger jammed in her ear, getting every last nuance out of the receiver. "Full-scale battle underway, Captain," she reports. "Three Constitution class ships remaining, two others destroyed. Scattered support vessels taking heavy damage. Four Vulcan vessels, two other unidentified crafts assisting. The _Narada_ is situated at the epicenter, approximately two hundred seventy point four clicks x, ten z, minus fourteen y, sir." She looks up, eyes wide. "The _Lincoln_ is going down sir, shields at eight percent."

Jim has to hand it to Taylor; he does this part of the job really damn well.

"Spock, Kirk!" he snaps, "get your birds in the air!"

"Aye, sir," Spock salutes, already moving.

"The rest of you," Taylor continues, "I want a clear map of this mess. Navigation, plot us above the wreckage for a bird's eye view. Ops, I need a prioritized survivor overlay immediately; scan for EPIRBs. Communications, deploy an emergency buoy. Helm, take us up, full impulse."

The lift doors close and Spock pushes his finger into the emergency override, disengaging the safeties and plummeting them so fast that the inertial dampeners can't compensate and Jim's stomach rises uncomfortably. Against the tense silence that surrounds them, Jim knows the rest of the ship is scrambling for their stations. Points are rolling out of bed, jamming their feet into boots and sprinting down corridors without even doing them up. Techs are powering up engines, running checks. Engineering is cycling what little shielding they have, bringing them to full defensive capability. Medics are building kits, trying to decide what added extras they want; are there going to be burns? Decompressions? Close range disruptor wounds? In what proportions and how severe?

The lift hits the hangar deck with less than its usual grace. He and Spock are out the doors and running towards the changing rooms before the voice has finished announcing their level.

Jim palms his locker, strips his outer uniform and stamps his boots into the legs of the EVA suit. The ankle seals he slaps closed with an open palm whilst simultaneously shrugging into the shoulders. Two zips, hood over his head, wrist seals, visor under his arm and he's good. They both turn at the same time, falling into step, eyes on the glow of Nix's reconditioned engines. Jim has a hard time suppressing the swell in his chest when he sees Bones and Uhura already waiting for them.

They hit the deck running, boots sharp on the plassteel. Around them, other senior crews are also set to deploy. Spock toggles his comm.

"All crews, this is Commander Spock," he says, voice even despite the jogging. "The precise military situation is unknown. Advise extreme caution. Remain peripheral to the zones of active combat. For all else: standard operating procedure applies. Deploy when ready. Spock out."

A rush of confirming comm clicks follows, with everyone obeying protocol and keeping verbal chatter to a minimum. Then Jim is jumping into the shuttle in Spock's wake, barely clipping in before Uhura polarizes the atmo shield and rolls them out.

"Good to go?" she calls over her shoulder.

"Good," McCoy barks.

"Good here," Jim adds.

"Take us out Lieutenant," says Spock.

The familiar slingshot snaps him back into his seat, the deck rushing past the open doors, morphing to blackness and stars as they shoot out of the bay doors and tumble into space. Immediately, the shields spark and stutter blue. Uhura swears and rolls them into a steep climb, twisting and turning between chunks of what used to be a Federation starship. Jim shuts his eyes and swallows his stomach.

Behind him, McCoy groans. "Jesus, woman."

 _ED996, this is Ops, got your ears on?_

Spock is talking to the whole Division, so Jim thumbs his comm. "We're listening, Gaila, go ahead."

 _I've got multiple EPIRBs. I'm going to drop you into hammer lane. Watch your back door and stay clear of the disco lights._

"Copy that," he acknowledges, then leans forward to Uhura. "New vector coming through. You can punch it hard even though it's hot, but we need eyes on our six."

"I've got ED202 and ED441 in convoy," Uhura counters. "New co-ordinates locked in. ETA one point six minutes."

Jim turns back to the main room. "One point six, folks."

Spock nods.

"Do we know the situation?" McCoy demands.

Jim flips out his tricorder, syncs it with the Ops feed and frowns. "Free-floaters by two, six in a pod and nominal readings from aft engineering decks. Ship's Vulcan."

An explosion rocks the shuttle. Jim is thrown forward against his harness, tastes bile in his throat as the straps cut into his diaphragm. There's a stream of invective from the cockpit as Uhura rights them, then a clang as something breaches the shields and impacts on the hull. They roll again, dampeners faulting out under the strain, everything going weightless and blurry as they do a full three-sixty before resuming course.

"Fuck, this is messy," Jim gasps between breaths as gravity returns.

" _Way_ too old for this shit," McCoy adds, one hand pressed to his chest.

"Thirty seconds," Uhura calls, never taking her eyes from the instruments.

Jim and Spock release their harnesses and get ready to go EVA. The people in the pod are safest right now and those trapped in the wreck the most difficult to extricate. Procedure dictates they pick up the floaters first; they're at greatest immediate risk.

The two Points are standing ready, feet on the runner, hands on the grips and their lines locked in. McCoy pulls his mask down, ready for any unexpected loss of pressure like the one Jim experienced during training.

" _Paki-sutra. Sokasitau zaprah_ ," Uhura broadcasts. "Stranded crew, prepare for rescue. Place your arms across your chest. Do not attempt to assist. _Nes'qlil abru'e'ksedj. Nirsh bae'cok gol-nev_."

Jim leans slowly out through the forcefield, feeling the pressure like water against his suit as it yields to his slow progress. He braces himself, quads flexed, consciously slowing his breathing because he still _hates_ EVA saves. The vectors on his HUD go green and he feels the rightness of them. With a grunt of effort, he launches himself into space, line playing out behind him. His mark is spinning slightly but obeys Uhura's orders and doesn't make it a difficult save by flailing around. Jim catches the figure neatly against his chest, absorbing the momentum and the spin with a very brief burst of compressed air from his belt. The pale Vulcan face is impressively composed.

" _Tonk'pe_ ," Jim grins, 'hi.' He shrugs the sling into place, securing them together.

Turning his head and searching across space, there's Spock, also played out behind Nix like a fish on a hook, the other save in place. They trail behind the shuttle on the end of their lines. It's dangerous and exposed. Neither waste any time reeling themselves in, eyes on the space around them, adjusting their plane when shrapnel comes too close for comfort.

Jim's save staggers a little on the lip of the deck, adjusting to gravity after weightlessness. Jim steadies him, slipping through afterwards, line still locked in. The Vulcan reaches for his helmet but Jim knocks on it, drawing his attention.

"Leave it on," he shouts, shaking his head. "Procedure."

Both points disengage the slings and McCoy ushers their first saves onto the small transporter pad. The tall Vulcans crouch much as Spock has to, silent and apparently unaffected. However, just as Uhura energizes the beam, Jim's save looks up, catching his eye, and nods, once.

Jim salutes, one finger to his hairline and smiles. "You're welcome."

They disappear in a flare of sparks, clearing the pad so Spock and Jim can both step on. They drop low, sitting on their heels, vulnerable without a harness or a locked-in line.

McCoy glares at them from his seat, leaning against the shoulder straps. "Those life signs are questionable at best," he warns. "They're either dead or in pretty bad shape, so don't screw around. Tag them and beam them to me, or beam me in after you. Don't play doctors and nurses."

"I've got a lock," Uhura calls. "It's going to be tight."

"Acknowledged," Spock replies.

"Energizing."

The world goes silver then re-forms around them.

"Ow!" Jim mutters as he stands and collects an overhanging conduit on the way.

"Engineering is this way," Spock says, already walking with tricorder switched on.

"Good, ‘cause I..."

A disruptor bolt shatters the darkness, heating the air enough that Jim can feel it through his suit. Spock lunges, his form outlined in light. The bolt goes wide, impacting a fuel-mix console with a shower of sparks. Starfleet training kicking in, Jim rolls, gets his feet under him and throws himself forward, firing three shots in quick succession, not even sure when he drew his phaser.

The second shot finds the target, the third just makes sure he stays unconscious. Jim comes up panting, arm still extended, eyes on the crumpled, tattooed body. "Spock, you good?"

"I am functional."

Jim glances back, because that's not a yes. Spock is standing stiffly, leaning against the bulkhead. Across his shoulder, a green stain is spreading slowly.

Jim turns, holsters his phaser. "I thought he missed."

" _He_ did," Spock agrees, then uses his head to indicate the cross-corridor. "His companion did not."

"What?" Jim peers into the darkness, only now seeing their second assailant, face-down on the deck. "Where did he come from?" He thumbs his comm whilst walking. "Gaila, Uhura, we've got some pointy-eared company."

"You were otherwise occupied," Spock reminds him, then, "it is not EPAS protocol to actively engage the enemy."

"He was shooting at us!" he objects, close enough now, to run the tricorder over Spock's shoulder and frown. "What was I supposed to do, negotiate a peace treaty?"

"Under the circumstances, I think not," Spock manages between gritted teeth as Jim rummages in his field kit and presses a wadded-up bandage to the wound. "There is no serious damage."

"A clean shot," Jim agrees. "This should do it." He slaps a seal over the impromptu packing and makes sure it will hold in vacuum. "There, done."

Spock has his composure back and simply nods, pushing off from the wall, compartmentalizing the pain in a way Jim never could. "This way."

"Kirk to McCoy," Jim says into his lapel mic. "We've taken fire. Spock's been hit, grade one only, he's stable. Continuing with the mission."

 _Goddamn it!_ Bones growls. _Copy that, McCoy out._

Duty discharged, Jim jogs to catch up, running his own tricorder in a complementary grid, giving them a wider play. Damned if he's going to be surprised again. He distractedly acknowledges Gaila's apology for not picking up the Romulans; there'll be enough time to analyze that in debrief, if they all make it back in one piece.

"I've got a live one," he announces, picking up the pace.

Jim's tricorder leads them to a buckled door set in a bulkhead. Environmental controls are down, their HUDs reporting plummeting temperatures. Whoever's on the other side of that door won't be able to withstand those conditions for much longer. Spock drops to his knees, scans the reinforced hinges.

"Two charges," he says confidently, pulling one from his pack and holding a hand out for one of Jim's. He places them carefully, primes the microwave pulse detonators and then knocks sharply on the door to gain attention from the inside. " _Yuzh-tor!_ " he calls loudly. " _Thorshau-tukh thorshaya!_ "

The Vulcan inside adequately warned, both Spock and Jim take cover around the corner, taking the precaution of securing a line to the frame in case their small explosion weakens the already damaged infrastructure to the point where the hull is breached.

" _Veh! Dahkuh! Rekuh!_ " Spock shouts the countdown and presses the switch.

Two sharp pops are followed by compressed air deflecting off the bulkheads. It finds them even around the corner; a concussive wave of surprising proportions considering the size of the charge. EPAS units are designed to be lightweight but extremely effective; hence the early adoption of the very stable but highly explosive Neussite 293.

Unhooking, they move back into the main corridor, assessing the effectiveness of the detonation. The top hinge is completely obliterated, but the bottom one is merely shattered.

"After you," Jim offers with a grandiose wave of his hands. Spock has more mass, more strength and probably a better idea of the physics behind where to apply them. Jim palms his phaser, setting himself up at an angle near the jamb that will allow him to cover most of the room's interior as well as the corridor behind them. Vulcan and Romulan life signs are easy to confuse, especially in the injured, when vital signs are aberrant. Whoever is on the other side of the door could be either friend or foe.

Spock takes a three step run up and crashes into the door. The remaining hinge yields immediately and the door crashes to the floor with a thunderous clang. Jim whips into the room, phaser at arm's length and braced in both hands, but all that greets him is a Vulcan technician lying in a pool of his own blood. It's so cold in the room that the edges of the mess he lies in are already beginning to freeze.

Spock unshoulders his pack, dropping it to the floor and completing a preliminary physical scan with patented efficiency. Jim doesn't need the red flashing lights to know that this save will be touch and go.

"Gaila, this is Kirk, over," he comms, frowning.

 _Go ahead, Jim._

"I need an updated lifesigns scan of the wreck we're on. It needs to be fast and it needs to be accurate," he glances down at Spock who is working hard to stabilize their young Vulcan. "We've got a bleeder and we need medical back-up, over."

 _Copy that, give me fifteen seconds._

Jim kneels on the opposite side of their patient, the comm on hands-free. "What have we got?"

"Major ascending vessel damage," Spock says tightly, "here, here and here. Apply pressure while I administer vasoconstrictors."

Jim takes two sterile pads and presses them hard into the hole in the tech's abdomen.

 _Nix Alpha Points, please be advised nil other lifesigns aboard your current location,_ a different Ops voice replies.

Jim can't spare a moment to wonder what happened to Gaila. "Copy that, Ops. Thank you."

Spock glances over. "Are you able to ..."

He doesn't get to finish that sentence because their patient chooses that moment to regain consciousness. His body goes tight as bowstring, dislodging Jim's hands and sending a bright fountain of green blood into the air.

Spock says something under his breath and leans on the young Vulcan's shoulder with his free hand, also pressing down on the boy's thigh with his knee. The tech gasps, coughs, lets out a strangled groan, and it sounds so much worse coming out of a Vulcan than it does a human.

" _Thonaya!_ " he whimpers, _pain, torment!_

"For god's sake, give him something," Jim grits out, struggling to hold him down and not needing any translation.

"I can give nothing that will not counteract the vasoconstrictors," Spock replies, adding his hand to the pressure of Jim's, pressing his fingers deeper into the steadily gushing wound. "He must practice _vedrah prah_."

"Like this?" Jim asks, shocked. Mind discipline is all very well, but he doesn't imagine anyone can meditate while they're bleeding out.

"We require the services of Doctor McCoy."

"No shit," Jim agrees. "We're clear; this guy's the only one alive on this boat and there are supposedly no more Romulan surprises either. That's straight from Ops."

Spock lifts his blood soaked hand to his comm, forcing Jim to lean down harder in compensation.

"ED996, this is Spock, over."

 _Uhura here. Go ahead._

"Beam Doctor McCoy directly to our current location. Full EVA required. Instruct him to bring analgesics that will not adversely interact with netinaline."

 _Spock, presuming you're working on a Vulcan, I've got nothing in the field kit that fits that description,_ McCoy interjects.

"Doctor ..." Spock begins sternly.

 _I'm coming, I'm coming,_ is the harried reply as their patient's whimpers carry over the comm channel. _Keep doing what you can._

The line clicks closed and the two Points exchange glances. Two minutes, perhaps, to suit up. Another minute for the transporter, and that's presuming Nix is still close enough to use the transporter immediately. It's a war zone out there and Uhura may well have had to relocate. A stationary target is tempting regardless of its non-combative status. Their young technician might not have that long.

Then, on the closed comm, Uhura asks the question that sinks everything.

 _Spock, Kirk, what about the survivors in the pod?_

They lock eyes.

"Shit," says Jim.

Spock is forced to manually compress a major artery as the tech arches again, putting more pressure on perforated vessels. His fingers slip and slide along blood-wet visceral tissue even while his face remains impassive. "Threat assessment?" he demands over the comm.

 _Amber,_ Uhura replies. _They've got maybe six minutes before they drift into the Lincoln's automated defensive grid. She can't afford to pull her punches with the Narada so close to breaking through. It'll be friendly fire._

From the tightening of Spock's jaw, he can't live with that, and frankly, neither can Jim.

"Reassign the save, Lieutenant," Spock instructs.

After a moment's silence, Uhura sounds apologetic. _There's nobody else, sir._

If Spock were human, Jim has the feeling he'd hang his head right now. Instead, he exhales once and nods. "Lieutenant Uhura, beam Doctor McCoy to our location, then take the life pod in tow and return to the _Stalwart_ , all possible haste."

 _Aye, sir,_ she replies, no trace of hesitation.

Jim swallows. It's not a good situation to be in; three essentially unarmed Federation personnel and one critically wounded Vulcan left deliberately stranded aboard a Vulcan battleship just littered with precious tech that Nero could turn to his advantage. He roughly calculates the best possible round-trip duration for Nix and even factoring in Uhura's sensational piloting skills, it's a hell of a long time. Too damn long for comfort.

The low buzz of a transporter breaks his train of thought as McCoy materializes a few feet to the left.

"Welcome to the party, Bones."

The doctor's eyes widen. "Holy mother of ... has he got any blood left _in_ him? What the hell have you hacks been doing?"

For all his brusqueness, McCoy nods with approval when he notices the empty vials of netinaline on the deck and Spock's desperate grip inside the wound. Jim shuffles aside on his knees, keeping the pressure on but giving the doctor space to work. First thing McCoy does is pull a thrombosis kit from his overloaded pack to slow the peripheral bleeding so they can begin to assess the more life-threatening damage.

"Packs," he demands gruffly, swatting Jim's hands aside and replacing them with his own.

Gloves slippery with blood, Jim fumbles at the tabs twice before getting the plastic wrapping to part.

"Damn it, I said _packs!_ "

"Keep your shirt on."

The tech calls out, spine lifting off the deck despite the hasty reapplication of Jim's weight to his shoulder.

McCoy curses profoundly. "I can't work like this. I'm going to have to give him two cc's of sonambutril."

"To do so could kill him," Spock objects.

McCoy looks up, suit already green with blood. "You don't think I know that? I'm out of options."

Jim watches Spock's expression harden. He knows that look but has never seen it on Spock before. It's the expression of a man who's backed into a corner; someone who's only remaining option is one he'd never otherwise consider.

"Sonambutril will not be necessary, doctor," he says flatly, then extends one gloved hand towards Jim, wrist turned so that the seal is easy to disengage.

Jim stares at it, unsure what to do, but Spock just presses it closer, demanding, fingers splayed. Obediently, Jim pops the seal and holds onto the fingertips while Spock jerks his hand free. Instantly, his warmth-loving Vulcan skin blanches white and green in the subzero temperatures. McCoy tuts under his breath, but clearly already knows what Spock is planning, has probably seen him do it before, because it's only Jim who seems surprised when Spock presses his hand against the tech's face. Fingers feather out, pressing harder, finding the meld points. He doesn't have time for ritual or preparation and both of them tense and hiss as Spock links them.  
All at once, the patient goes limp, his eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling. Spock sits crouched over him, one knee still on his shoulder, free hand clamped down on the major bleeder so hard that it takes all of McCoy's strength to get him to release it so he can get to work.

McCoy snaps his fingers, sending a splatter of blood across the deck. "Pay attention! Hand me that cauterizer; there's a hell of a mess in here. Also, draw me up a double dose of pulmozine, I don't like the look of his oxygen saturation. He's lost a lot of blood but I can't give him anything except plasma expanders. Supplies of Vulcan blood are so low these days."

Jim does as he's told, slapping the instruments to the palm of McCoy's hand so he doesn't have to look around in order to grasp them, doesn't have to break his concentration again. They work steadily, quickly and effectively to stabilize the patient, McCoy dosing him with broad spectrum antibiotics and antivirals as he closes each visceral layer. Even under these circumstances, his work is exceptionally neat, years of field experience and research showing in every movement, every touch. Inside his visor, Jim can see a bead of perspiration slide down from his hairline; McCoy doesn't even blink when it slips into his eye.

"There," he pronounces, sitting back on his heels and shaking out a thermal blanket over the tech. "How long until pick up?"

Jim straightens his shoulders and cracks his neck. "Uhura, ETA, over?"

 _Three minutes,_ comes the prompt reply. _I've got your frequencies locked._

McCoy nods, the strain showing in the freshly pressed lines around his eyes, then he nods at Spock and mimes a backhand. "I won't deny you the pleasure."

Jim feels his eyes widen. "Why do we have to hit him again?"

The doctor gives him a longsuffering look. "In case you haven't noticed, that's no ordinary mind meld. He's in deep, probably too deep." With a sigh, he slaps a stimulant into a hypo and hands it to Jim. "I really hate it when he does this."

Ignoring the pins and needles, Jim straightens and circles the gory operating area to hunker down next to Spock. "How often does this happen?"

McCoy stands, sanitizing his gloves and throwing aside the towel carelessly. "Not often. I don't think he's a huge fan of the consequences of this particular party trick."

"Consequences?" Jim has his hands on the neck seal of Spock's suit, ready to slip the hypo inside, but he pauses.

McCoy smirks. "You'll be fine, kid."

"Where are _you_ going?" Jim tries to sound normal.

"Some fresh air," McCoy jokes, stepping over the ruined door. "Ashe used to handle this; he really hates it when I watch."

Jim hears the doctor put a few meters between them, ducking out of sight but not so far that it will take a separate transporter lock to beam them all out. Nervous now, he turns back to Spock. His brown eyes are fixed and staring, unblinking below his frown of deep concentration. With a shrug, Jim presses the hypo into the vulnerable skin of his neck and then closes the suit, pushes back the visor and slaps him once, hard, across the face.

Spock's hand comes free of the tech's face as he explodes into movement, arms flailing, hands grasping in sheer, unadulterated panic. Beside them, the tech goes limp against the deck, falling into a natural unconsciousness.

" _Safek-kusut-nosh!_ " Spock cries, gripping Jim's arm whilst simultaneously trying to stand and consequently failing abysmally in the attempt, slipping back to the deck, boots wet with blood. " _P'pil'la'ai!_ " he gasps, " _K'oh-nar-veh, ki-gla tor nash-veh vash!_ "

Spock is blabbering about pain, broken things and shame, real fear plastered across his face. It's scary as shit and Jim reacts before he can think about it, giving him a little shake by the shoulders. "Spock, snap out of it."

"So much!" he moans, squeezing his eyes closed, switching easily to Standard. "I cannot feel the place where death ends and I begin, I must have _kya'shin tren'es!_ "

He lapses back into Vulcan to explain something so inherent to his people's study of control that it has no proper translation. Jim can only hear the desperation in it, the total loss of self. He shifts his grip, takes Spock's face firmly, frames it in his gloves. "Listen to me, come on," he encourages. "Get it together."

Spock manages a nod, eyes tightly closed. When he opens them again, something like recognition dances across them.

"Better," Jim tells him. "Much better. Holy shit, you scared the fuck out of me. No wonder Bones disappeared. I'm going to kick his ass."

"The doctor," Spock manages. "Stoll."

Jim inclines his head at the unconscious technician. "Is that Stoll?"

Spock nods.

"He's stable, McCoy's just outside and we're about a minute away from getting beamed off this floating refrigerator," he explains, then reaches for Spock's discarded glove. "Here, your hand's going olive."

Spock stares at the glove for a moment as if unsure of its purpose, but then, to Jim's relief, reaches for it and slips it back on. There are few moments of silence broken only by the injured tech's labored breathing.

"My patient still alive in there?" McCoy bellows from the corridor.

"Dancing a jig," Jim calls back.

Their transponders chime just as Uhura comes over the comms. _Nix crew, prepare for beam out, over._

Spock finally lifts his eyes from his hands, thumbing his collar comm. "Copy that, Lieutenant. Three crew, plus one category three patient." His voice is full of gravel and none too steady.

 _Destination on your cat three?_

"Straight to sickbay, Uhura," Bones chips in, stomping back into the room wearing his usual frown. "Transmitting field notes now. He has to be prepped for surgery straight away, no sitting in a holding bay, understand?"

 _Copy that. Stand by for transporter._

The tech disappears in a swirl of light, leaving the three crew standing around an impressive pool of green blood. McCoy kicks the toe of his boot idly at a point that has totally crystallized in the cold, crunching it against the deck. Jim's legs are screaming; he wants to stand up, but something about the way Spock is kneeling makes him think the Commander might not be able to join him.

"Hey," he draws Spock's attention in an undertone. "You okay?"

Imperfectly composed, he nods. "Adequate."

Just before the transporter takes them, Jim flashes back to the intensity of Spock's withdrawal from the meld. He blinks out of existence with _ki-gla tor nash-veh vash_ ringing in his ears. _I have seen terror ..._

-:-

The waypoint beacon blinks steadily, scorched but functional. Around it, pieces of starships and the bodies of many different races spin lazily against the stars. Some of them are beginning to clump together, the mass of larger items attracting others into their orbit, like filings to a magnet. Retrieving the dead will fall to some other unfortunate crew.

The _Stalwart_ maintains a slow but steady course for _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ loaded down with survivors, her warp engines significantly damaged during the fighting. Best speed is warp two, leaving them approximately twelve point seven hours late for their rendezvous with Admiral Pike. Of more concern to Spock is the hit taken by the bridge, with all its resultant damage. Several crewmembers were injured and vital equipment damaged beyond repair. Captain Taylor hopes to source replacements at the Vulcan colony, but the components they need are old and outdated like the ship. Spock is less optimistic.

"Spock? I said what do you want me to do about the Communications re-route? Leave it hardwired into Ops for the moment?"

He lifts his head at the sound of Jim's voice, disturbed to realize he has only the vaguest sense of the conversational trend. "Would you repeat that?"

"Okay," Kirk sighs, putting down his PADD decisively. "The ship's not on fire anymore, and you've signed absolutely everything including the kitchen roster. This can wait until you've slept or meditated or plugged yourself into a wall socket. We're going to sickbay."

Spock watches his Point One stalk around the desk to stand, hands on hips, waiting. Although the Lieutenant seems to draw the line at manhandling him, Spock is not certain the threat is entirely absent. Jim appears most determined.

"Very well," he says, and stands smartly, ignoring the burning in his shoulder and the whole body ache.

When they reach the corridor and Kirk is still following him, Spock pauses, frowning. "I do not require your assistance."

Jim’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "You got it," he shrugs, backing away a few steps before turning.

Spock's frown deepens as Jim walks away. He is too tired, too drained to process the intricacies of human behaviour, yet their exchange remains troubling. Although his feet carry him towards sickbay, his attention remains fixed in that moment, captive to a sense of vague loss and confusion.

McCoy treats his shoulder wound without once reprimanding him for the delay in getting it seen to. The doctor's eyes are intent on his work, his hands steady and professional. Spock says nothing, perched on the edge of a biobed, shirtless with legs dangling.

"Do you want something?" McCoy asks at the end.

Spock does not pretend to misunderstand. "No," he says, then, "thank you."

The doctor sighs heavily and leans on the heels of his hands, pressed into the mattress next to Spock's thighs. "I don't care who you are or where you're from, nothing about the way you deal with this is healthy."

"Your concern is gratifying." Spock reaches for a new undershirt and carefully pulls it over his head, hyperaware of the fresh, greenish skin along his collar bone. "Be assured I intend spend the next four hours in sleep and meditation."

McCoy looks up, Spock's own fatigue reflected in his kindly eyes. "Is it enough?"

Spock slides off the biobed and pauses. "It is not."

The doctor does not try to stop him as he leaves.

He gets as far as the door to his quarters when the ship lurches, throwing him violently to the deck. The lighting flickers then shuts down. Dim emergency overheads snap on, whilst beneath his hands, the strip lighting embedded in the floor starts cycling in the direction of the nearest exit.

 _Commander Spock, report._

He pushes to his knees, thumbs the comm. "Spock here."

 _Sir, Captain Taylor wants you down in Engineering, asap._

"Understood."

He gets to his feet, strides over to the nearest jeffries tube and begins his descent. Turbolifts will be disabled to conserve power. The only areas with full functionality will be ship-wide life support and the operating theatres in sickbay.

Every rung pulls at his new skin while the chill of only a single layer of clothing begins to settle in. A small, tired part of Spock's mind yearns for a warm, dark place where he can rest. A mere handful of minutes is all he would require. He pushes the thought away as the Engineering deck rises under his feet. He knows the ship's schematics by heart, which serves him well in the gloom of minimal lighting. Acrid smoke is rising into the tube as he approaches his destination. Automatically, he identifies silicate compounds, carbon and plastics; irritating but non toxic in such low concentrations.

Ducking through the small porthole, he straightens and surveys the scene. Engineers scurry from place to place with fire extinguishers in hand, shooting small bursts at any lingering flames.

"Report!" he calls.

Several heads whip round but only one figure approaches; Lieutenant Scott.

"Commander Spock, sir," he sighs. "We're in a right royal pickle down here, as you can see."

"Pickle?"

"That Romulan splinter bomb caused superficial damage to the port nacelle, and I don't wish to speak ill of the dead sir, but it would have been wise of our late Chief Engineer had sent someone outside to take a look before we left the scene of the crime, so to speak." The technician is walking as he's talking, leading Spock deeper into the biting smoke and sparking wires. "I'm only the officer of the watch, but I'm telling you right now, we're not going anywhere fast."

Spock studies the readouts and assesses the extent of damage to the nacelle's hardware. "We have no warp capability at all?"

"Well," Mr. Scott pouts. "I could give you warp one if our lives depended on it, but it would be bumpy and I'd have to do some pretty illegal things to the intermix chamber."

He chooses to ignore that confession and focus on the imperative. "Your recommendations, Mr. Scott."

"Power down completely," he says immediately. "She's a mess, Commander, and we need a chance to repair the worst of the damage. Press on now and you risk another engine failure. We might not be around to shake our heads over the next one," he pats the transparent aluminium casing lovingly, "isn't that right, my darling?"

Spock feels his hands ball into fists at his sides. Thankfully the semi-darkness hides it from the rest of the crew. They have over eighty rescued personnel on board, some in critical condition. Their shielding is minimal, their maneuverability almost non-existent and his approximate calculations place them in the center of contested space at the Vulcan border of the Klingon Neutral Zone. Nero might not value an old Constitution class starship, but to a Klingon pirate the reward would be psychological as well as strategic. Beaten, humbled and outraged, the opportunity to strike back at someone, at _anyone_ would be difficult for a Klingon to resist.

Commander Harris, Taylor's XO, chooses that moment to appear on the scene.

"Commander Spock," Harris coughs, hand to his mouth and nose.

Spock wastes no time on greetings. "Lieutenant Scott informs me that the engines were more severely damaged than previously thought. He requires a total power down to effect proper repairs."

Harris looks as concerned as Spock feels. "How long will that take, Mr. Scott?"

Scott looks pained. "Ten, maybe twelve hours."

"Twelve hours!" Harris exclaims. "Do you have any idea where we are, Lieutenant?"

"Aye, sir," he nods grimly. "I've a fair idea."

"Then you know how important it is that we get underway again as soon as possible."

"Aye, sir, I do."

"Then you're going to have to do better than twelve hours, or even ten," Harris presses, "do you understand?"

Scott snatches up a PADD and waves it at Harris. "I cannot change the laws of physics! It takes a certain amount of time to power down a warp core and the same amount of time to power it back up. Disregarding the time it will take to actually _fix_ the thing, you're still looking at four hours, minimum."

"Work on her while she's hot, Lieutenant," Harris says, at least having the grace to look white-faced at what he's demanding. "I can give you four hours, no more."

Scott's jaw bunches but he nods. "So long as you realize it won't just be us lads in overalls who get vaporized, it'll be the whole ship and everyone aboard."

"It's a risk we have to take," Harris counters, nodding to Spock and then retreating back up the jeffries tube.

Scott gapes, hands open in supplication. "Can you _believe_ that? Four hours to cycle the warp drive and we've got to fix her while she's still ticking over! This is some new brand of insanity!"

Internally, Spock agrees with Mr. Scott's assessment. "What alternative do you suggest?"

Scott crosses immediately to an astrogation terminal, bringing a fist down atop its screen to bring it to life. "There's a small M-class planet orbiting a gas giant that's technically in Vulcan space. It's less than an hour from here under full impulse. We need to drop into orbit, use the planet to shield our energy signature and fix this properly before we blow _ourselves_ to hell, never mind the Klingons and the Romulans!"

Spock studies the star charts, glances down at the preliminary damage assessment Mr. Scott shoves into his diaphragm and reaches a conclusion. He lifts his eyes to find the technician staring at him, anxiously awaiting a verdict. "I shall discuss your suggestion with the Captain."

"Thank you, sir." Scott throws his hands up and turns back to the smoky chaos. "Come on lads and lasses! Who's handling the air cyclers? We can't fix what we can't see!"

Spock syncs the proposed flight path to the PADD in his hands and tucks it into the small of his back in order to free himself for the climb to the bridge.

-:-

Quite literally thrown from his bunk by the sudden fall out of warp and finding himself in the pitch dark for a full fifteen seconds before emergency lighting kicks in, Jim spends the time feeling sorry for himself. The day had really only gone from bad to worse. His own terminal is shut down due to emergency power status, so he sets out for the Observation Deck to use the communal ones, but makes it only as far as the mess before McCoy bounces off him. The doctor is heading the other direction at speed, bed hair sticking up in all directions.

"I ..."

"With me," Bones interrupts, grabbing hold of Jim's collar without breaking his stride.

"Where are we going?"

"Sickbay," McCoy gives him a shot of crazy eyes. "Where the hell do you think? The place is stacked three high with the walking wounded and I guarantee you the emergency power protocols won't be working properly. You're a passable geek and reasonable first aider. Right now, as we speak, there are probably nurses doing mouth to mouth." He intensifies the glare for emphasis. "I need you to jury rig us out of the dark ages or get in there with them."

"I'll mouth to mouth a nurse for you, all you have to do is ask nicely."

"For the love of ..."

He makes the universal gesture for surrender just as Spock appears out of nowhere, dropping into the corridor from a jeffries tube.

The Commander frowns at the palms of Jim's hands. "Lieutenant Kirk, I require your assistance."

"No way!" McCoy scowls. "I saw him first."

"You may have your pick of what staff Lieutenant Scott can spare," Spock counters.

"Those hacks!"

"I consider the matter settled, doctor," Spock says coldly, and gesturing at Jim, sets off towards the bridge.

"Green blooded son of a bitch!" McCoy spits under his breath. "Looks like whatever he's got planned is more important than saving lives. I'll see you once we've hauled ass out of whatever this is, Jim."

"You're on," he agrees, slapping the doctor on the back as they part ways.

Jim stretches his tired legs to draw level with Spock, instantly noticing that barring a new undershirt, the Commander has yet to change. Didn't even make it back to his quarters, then.

"We have sustained significant damage to the port nacelle," Spock reveals without prompting. "Our current orders are to effect full-scale repair of the damaged components whilst simultaneously cycling the power to the core in order to reset the system."

"Wait," Jim frowns. "Hot work on a damaged antimatter pod?"

"Correct."

"That's suicide!"

"The statistical chance of survival is not favorable," Spock agrees. "Lieutenant Scott has proposed an alternate course of action that has an acceptable safety margin but will require a further twelve hours delay."

"And Taylor won't go for it," Jim finishes for him.

"Captain Taylor has not yet been briefed. Commander Harris gave the order."

Jim wrinkles his nose. "That guy is really starting to get on my nerves."

Naturally, Spock won't criticize the chain of command, but he doesn't reprimand Jim for doing so, either. They make it to the ladder that will take them to the bridge.

"And we're going to, what?" Jim asks, following Spock into the tube, "argue with the XO on the bridge in front of the entire Beta crew?"

"I hope to avoid that scenario if at all possible." Spock angles his head down the tube so Jim can hear. "When we arrive, I shall approach Captain Taylor directly. I require your assistance with gathering evidence to support Mr. Scott's plan."

"Hey, you want someone to prove that popping the hatch on a hot nacelle is a bad idea, just ask my nephew," Jim grunts, hitting the rungs hard to keep up with Spock. "He's eight."

"Then I assume you will experience no difficulty cross-referencing previous documented attempts and their suboptimal outcomes."

"I could do it in my sleep," Jim says confidently. "With a crayon. On a napkin."

Spock swings out of the tube and onto the deck. "Your self confidence is remarkable."

Breathless from the climb, Jim winks. "It's one of my most appealing traits."

"Indeed." Spock grips his forearm strongly, pulling him out of the tube.

Jim's grin widens. "You should get to know my others."

"I believe I am growing familiar with them."

They pause before the double doors to the bridge, and it's not quite a shared smile, because Spock wouldn't go for that, but it's something. Then Spock palms the door control and they're on.

 

 


	23. chapter 4.6

Jim supposes it's fortuitous that Taylor agrees to countermand Harris' dangerous orders _before_ the ship gets ambushed. The man has a one-track mind and getting his consent to divert to a Vulcan moon under a more lengthy repair schedule would have been much more difficult while they were taking fire.

"One Klingon warbird, Captain!" the Communications officer announces just as the ship shudders from the third successive impact.

"Well, give me shields, dammit!" Taylor demands.

"Shields at maximum available power," a technician calls. "Approximately sixty-two percent and falling."

"What's the matter with them?"

Spock steps forwards. "We are operating on emergency power, sir," he reminds him gently. "The damage to the port nacelle has necessitated limited shutdown of the warp core, thus affecting our peak shielding capacity."

Taylor blinks, his eyes wide under the pressure, but he knows regulations as well as the next man. "Send a wide-band distress call and throw every bit of auxiliary power we've got to the shields."

"Aye, sir," come the instant replies.

"Helm, bring us about. I want the saucer section shielding our damaged engines, understand?" At the end of all obvious courses of action, Taylor turns to Harris.

The XO merely stares back and then raises his hands in an abortive surrender. "We have no photon torpedoes, no EMP weapons and only two phaser banks and even they're calibrated for cutting through wreckage, not punching through Klingon shields." He lists their pathetic resources with a mix of defeat and panic. "We won't last five minutes."

The main viewer flickers to life, revealing the scarred and ridged visage of a hardened Klingon Captain. "Greetings, Federation scum," he snarls in barely comprehensible Standard. "Surrender your pitiful ship immediately, or we will blow you out of the stars!"

The communication terminates as abruptly as it began, leaving Taylor staring at Harris and the Commander staring right back. Jim bites his tongue, forces himself to remember that Harris isn't battle trained and that strategy was never Taylor's forte. They've been managing what is essentially a logistics ship for more than ten years with their only battle exposure being second hand, and usually when things aren't going particularly well for the home team.

Two breaths later, the inevitable happens and the Captain turns around. "Spock?" he says, hopefully.

Jim feels the DivCO stiffen beside him. Of all of them, Spock has the least militarized background, never having enrolled in Starfleet at all. To ask him for strategic advice under such circumstances is not only a tall order, it clearly reveals the depth of Taylor's ineptitude.

"The Klingons have a reputation for showing no mercy to their prisoners of war," Spock begins, sounding a little strained. "Together with the EPAS Neutral Zone treaty, this precludes both our surrender and active engagement in battle with treaty signatories."

"Well, what are our options, then?" Taylor demands, the warbird dark and menacing on the viewer behind him. "If we can't shoot back or hand over the ship and live, what does the damn treaty tell us to do?"

Spock shrugs slightly with his head and one shoulder. "This particular scenario is not mentioned."

"What do you mean, 'not mentioned'?"

"The Diplomatic Corps simply assumed that given the overall nature of the immunity outlined in the treaty, this scenario would never eventuate."

Harris steps forward threateningly. "You _are_ joking."

Spock turns his head. "I assure you, I am not."

The Captain steps in front of his XO, flings a hand towards the viewer, encompassing all his frustration with one pointed finger. "We need to fix this!" he shouts, "treaty or no treaty!"

"I agree," Spock replies calmly, although his hands blanch where they grip each other in the small of his back. "What do you propose?"

"What do I ...?" Taylor goes ashen, glancing between the screen and Spock's implacable face.

"Sir," Spock says firmly. "What are your orders?"

Jim takes a deep breath and releases it, recognizing the words for the escape route they imply.

Taylor sees it too, goes weak at the knees with it and uses the arm of his chair to steady himself. "Use whatever resources you require, Commander," he says roughly, "and report back to me when you have a workable solution."

Spock snaps a salute. "Aye, sir," he says, crossing to the nearest comm station and depressing the button. "Doctor McCoy, please locate Lieutenant Chekov, Engineer Scott, Lieutenant Uhura and Lieutenant Gaila, then meet me in briefing room two, immediately."

 _Lieutenant Gaila is injured,_ McCoy replies quickly.

Spock frowns. "Understood. Proceed to the briefing room."

 _Acknowledged, McCoy out._

"Commander?" Taylor asks, his voice tinged with hope.

Spock straightens, somehow keeps his face totally blank. "I shall keep you apprised, sir."

"Very good," the Captain nods, his voice breaking just a little.

  
-:-

  
"So, what is this?" Jim asks quickly as the doors to the bridge close behind them, "a brain-storming session?”

"Of sorts," Spock agrees, long legs propelling him down the corridor towards the briefing rooms.

"You got a plan?"

Spock gives him a sideways look. "Of sorts."

Jim huffs out a laugh despite the circumstances. "You know, when we survive this, I'm going to petition the universe to give you your own ship. This is bullshit."

"The Captain is merely making best use of his resources." Spock pauses, head tilted in consideration. "And precisely how does one petition the universe?"

"He's the crossword clue for four down; adjective, eleven letters, starts with _incom_ ends with _petent_ ," Jim snaps. "I'm sick of it and you should be, too."

"An emotional response to this situation is not helpful."

Jim flails his arms as they hurry along. "At least tell me that somewhere, deep down in side, you've _got_ one, or I'm seriously going to wig out."

That earns him an eyebrow of his own, one tinged with friendly tolerance and a hint of amusement. Inside, Jim is momentarily gleeful. Sometimes, in spite of long standing protective habit, you actually need to let something in. Bit by bit, moment by moment, he thinks that both of them are learning how.

All at once, he grinds to a halt, grabs Spock by the arm. "Son of a bitch!"

They're less than two meters from the briefing room and early enough that the personnel Spock requested turn the corner at the same time, so now they're all facing off in the corridor.

"Spock," Jim says, overwhelmed with urgency. "The only way we're going to get out of this alive is if we let the ship get boarded."

"What is he _talking_ about?" Scotty explodes.

"Are you _insane?_ " McCoy adds.

Precious seconds are ticking away, but Spock just watches him, focused and intent. "Explain."

With a surge of relief, Jim twists so he's speaking to the whole group. "The Klingons want our unconditional surrender, perhaps with a few fistfights for kicks, but really, they're only here for the end result. Nero's broken them, which means if the Federation wanted to, we could sail right into Klingon space to really _end_ them, and they know it." He pauses for breath before he passes out. "They hate it. They're desperate and they're pissed. Right now, the _Stalwart_ is a way for them to score a ship and feel good about themselves; a way to regain some honour in their own eyes. Take that possibility away from them and what do you think they're going to do?"

"Blow us to smithereens," Chekov supplies helpfully.

"Right, so instead, we give them what they want."

Spock's eyebrow shoots up. "You wish us to surrender?"

"No." Jim feels a slow smile spread across his face. "Make them think we're going down fighting."

"And that involves letting an angry horde of blood-thirsty aliens onto the ship, _how_ , exactly?" Bones demands, hands on hips.

Jim turns to Uhura, who's simply been following along, a slight frown perched between her manicured eyebrows. "Girl with the golden tongue," he says. "How's your Klingon?"

"Better than your Romulan," she smirks.

"We are not equipped to counter a full-scale ship-to-ship invasion," Spock interjects.

Jim grips his arm more tightly for emphasis. "That's why you've already got a way to keep them from beaming across in large numbers, am I right?"

Spock blinks, then frowns mightily. Jim can almost see the calculations scroll behind his eyes. Unconsciously, his fingers return Jim's pressure, holding his forearm as though for anchorage or solidarity. "It may be possible," he announces at last, head turning to seek out Scotty. "I will require your assistance to program a randomized microscopic oscillation pattern into our shield generators."

"Sounds like a barrel of laughs," the Scotsman sighs.

"Uhura, McCoy, Chekov," Spock continues, "assist Lieutenant Kirk in coordinating our defenses. I shall inform the Captain of our plan."

"Will he go for it?" Jim asks in an undertone.

Spock tilts his head, and there's a hint of sarcasm there. "I am positive that when presented with the alternative, he will recognize the virtue of your proposal."

"Now who's persuasive?" Jim smiles, giving Spock's arm a final squeeze before releasing it.

  
-:-

  
McCoy shifts his knees on the hard decking, peering over their hastily assembled barricade. "I just want the record to reflect that I think this is a bad idea of epic proportions."

"Pretty sure we've logged that, Bones," Jim whispers, edging over to look around the other side.

"Only for the hundredth time," Chekov seconds, pressing his shoulder into the doorway that covers the other side of the corridor.

Uhura jams a finger in her ear; she's the only one of them with active comms. It's an attempt to stop the Klingons from catching wind of their little trap. "The gap should appear any second," she calls. "Scotty says they're definitely looking for it."

The deck shakes under them as the _Stalwart_ takes yet another hit she can't afford.

"How much longer?" Bones whispers tensely, just as the distinctive sound of a transporter fills the air.

A party of six Klingons materialize facing the wrong direction. It's a fluke Jim takes full advantage of, standing upright, risking exposure to drop three of them in quick succession before they even know what's going on. The other three fall to their knees, turning to fire faster than Jim would have thought possible. He ducks the first shots, but feels the burn of a glancing impact even as he drops back below the packing crates.

"Shit," says McCoy, already moving to assess the damage.

"Never mind about me," Jim hisses. "Shoot the damn Klingons! Jesus!"

With an exasperated flail, the doctor lunges into the corridor and under the cover of Chekov's fire, drops two out of the three in the space of time it would take most people to aim. Uhura stalks up behind the final warrior and presses the barrel of her phaser to his temple. Slowly, growling in displeasure, the Klingon lets his weapon clatter to the deck and raises his hands.

Chekov stands gaping in the intersection.

"Little known fact about the doctor," Jim chuckles, clutching his ribs. "Highest firearms rating in Starfleet's non-combative class."

"Flatterer," McCoy grumbles, but he's smirking as he pushes Jim's hand aside to check the wound.

Uhura moves to cuff their one conscious prisoner.

" _PujwI' HIvlu'chugh quvbe'lu'!_ " the Klingon spits.

"What was that?" Jim gasps as McCoy sprays something on his burned skin.

"Didn't sound wery nice," Chekov offers.

"He's essentially accusing us of being dishonorable if we shoot him," Uhura translates.

"Pity he didn't think about dishonor when his commander opened fire on an unarmed Federation rescue vessel," Jim returns coldly, pushing McCoy's hands aside and getting to his feet. "Uhura, matokeo va utafutaji kwa."

She gives him her best what-the-fuck expression. "Swahili? _Seriously?_ "

Jim shrugs. "What can I say? I was going to use it to ask you out before I realized how scary you are."

She shakes her head at him, but turns back to their captive to keep him talking, as ordered. " _Hoch 'ebmey tIjon,_ " she says, _capture all opportunities_.

" _BatlhHa' vanglu'taHvIS quv chavbe'lu'_ ," the Klingon snarls. "One does not achieve honor by acting dishonorably."

"You speak Standard?" Jim asks, surprised.

Their captive rolls his eyes. "Are all humans as stupid as you?"

"What's your name?" Jim asks, fighting down a very embarrassing blush.

"Toq Tel'peh of the House of Karn," he replies proudly, full of venom.

Jim turns. "Got enough, Uhura?"

She nods, pressing her fingers into her earpiece again and running something through the Universal Translator. "Karn is a small clan from the northern hemisphere. It's an unusual accent, but that might work to our advantage."

"Okay, good." Jim draws level with Chekov and draws his own phaser, directing it at the Klingon's chest. "Sorry, buddy."

Toq actually smiles before the stun beam washes over him, probably expecting death rather than unconsciousness.

"Seriously," Jim sighs. "These people."

Uhura reaches down, yanks the Klingon's communicator free of his bandolier and raises it; the UT held between it and her lips. " _Toq Tel'peh 'ja. Yay; jagh-pu jey-qu'!_ " she barks, then tosses it aside. "There you go, we're officially defeated."

"Excellent," Jim grins.

  
-:-

  
Spock is seated next to Mr. Scott in engineering, both their hands flying across the boards in an attempt to randomize the shield oscillations in a manner that appears like natural degradation but still controls the entry points for the small batches of Klingons beaming across.

One by one, inter-ship reports begin to filter in. Each enemy contingent is disarmed and contained by Points or Security, with Ops or Pilots trailing along to learn the name and study the dialect of as many invaders as they can. In a surprisingly short space of time, the Klingon frequencies are full of Federation voices, cunningly disguised by voice modulators and distortion, issuing reports of overall success and some glorious deaths in battle...every one of them in convincing Klingon.

"Are you confident of your ability to maintain shield integrity without my assistance?" he asks, finding a pause in the algorithm that allows him to look up from the console.

"Aye sir, I can take it from here," Scotty replies, face lit from beneath, devilish and manic.

Spock stands, the sense of success banishing some of the fatigue from his mind and body. If they are to negotiate a Klingon surrender, the Captain will most likely have need of him on the bridge.

  
-:-

  
Jim leads his tired company towards the hastily rigged holding cell. It's a simple cargo bay with a powerful forcefield cobbled together in lieu of a door and hard vacuum out the other exit. He'd deemed it more secure than individual quarters. Jim had never known a ventilation duct that didn't favor escapees. Here, the captured Klingons have a choice between an armed guard that can see them at all times and the nothingness of space. They have no hope of escape and it shows in their tense aggression. Klingons do best when they have a choice between fighting and dying. They make poor prisoners.

Uhura gives him a mock salute. "Bet you're feeling pretty full of yourself right now."

" _Vaj toDuj Daj ngeHbej DI vI',_ " he grins.

"Wow," she deadpans. "Your Klingon is really bad. Your auntie eats _what_ for breakfast, now?"

"Shut up."

"I heard Taylor's negotiating safe passage." She inclines her head towards the motley group in the cargo bay.

"By that you mean Spock is negotiating," Jim counters.

"Why don't you two get a room, already?"

Jim's stomach drops away, but he knows he hasn't been obvious so he just grins. "Who says we haven't?"

"Yeah, right," Uhura smirks. "Good luck keeping _that_ one a secret."

"Dammit, I can be subtle," he objects, hands on hips.

"As a fucking freight train," she agrees. "How much longer before we beam these guys back where they belong? All the repressed rage is making me crave ice cream."

"What is that?" Jim frowns. "A chick thing?"

"Maybe," she shrugs. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."

"I'm not knocking it, I just don't get it."

"What, your celebrations only include being drunk, fighting or fucking?"

He thinks about that for a moment. "Pretty much, yeah."

"You're all class, Kirk."

"Mmm," he grins. "I know."

"Cookies and cream," Uhura sighs dreamily. "Or pistachio. That gets you where it counts."

"Right on the ass?"

She narrows her eyes. "You saying I'm fat?"

"Uh, no," he swallows. "Because I value my continued existence."

She taps her foot.

"And also, you're totally not fat?"

"Better."

"Where's Harris?" Jim feels the desperate need to change the subject. "Wasn't he supposed to be here by now?"

On cue, the XO clambers out of a jeffries tube with Spock on his heels. Harris looks flustered, his face red and his hair awry. By contrast, and despite the things Jim knows he's endured, Spock appears totally relaxed. For a moment, he envisages a _Stalwart_ with Spock in the Captain's chair and has to smother a sigh at the sheer awesomeness.

"Lieutenant Kirk," Harris says tightly. "Congratulations, your plan worked perfectly."

"Thank you, sir," Jim bows his head, knowing he can't hide the buzz that comes from realizing Spock gave him the credit. It was only fair and logical, but it could have waited for the official report.

"The Captain has successfully negotiated safe passage across the Neutral Zone in exchange for the prisoners," Harris continues. "We're to beam them back en masse as soon as possible."

"There's one small flaw there," Jim apologizes. "What with the warp core being half-powered, we can't beam much of anything without dropping our shields entirely."

Harris looks momentarily flummoxed, so Spock steps forward. "If I may, Commander?"

"Spock."

"The _Stalwart_ houses more than fifty Echo Delta class shuttles more than capable of transporting up to twelve uninjured persons at a time."

"Use the shuttles to return the prisoners?"

"With the Klingons properly restrained, I see no reason why the risk to EPAS personnel cannot be minimized."

Harris nods. "Very well, inform your crews."

"Aye, sir," Spock says, standing aside to let Harris exit.

"Now we're playing taxi service?" Jim asks, eyes on Spock. "Do you think Klingons are good tippers?"

Uhura laughs outright, but it's the twitch of the Commander's lips that earns Jim's smile in return.

  
-:-

  
 _ED996, adjust your trajectory by z minus five degrees and enter the holding pattern, over._

"Copy that, Ops," Uhura presses her mic. "Z minus five and holding."

Jim leans forward against his harness, just the lap belt done up to allow greater manoeuvrability. He's keeping his weapon trained on the ten Klingons cuffed and bound in the shuttle's belly. "Who's that on comms? Is Gaila still off duty?”

"Last I heard she was in sickbay."

"Anything serious?"

"She was on the bridge when we took a splinter bomb hit back at the waypoint," Uhura explains. "Electrical burns, just minor stuff."

Jim breathes a sigh of relief. "What kind of candy do you think she likes?" he jokes. "Perhaps I can reprogram the replicators to ..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim sees the closest Klingon lunge violently to the left. He turns, brings his phaser to bear and fires. The huge warrior staggers, but keeps coming. "Son of a fucking...they're loose! Heads up, everyone!"

Spock has already unclipped, is already moving. Jim doesn't have time to wonder how the bastards got free because the first Klingon is on him, one meaty hand around his throat, the other pulled back, ready to beat him to a pulp. Belted in with nowhere to go, Jim fires again, cursing the blinking charge light on his phaser even as the Klingon's grip falters and he crumples to the deck.

"Fuck these fucking useless phasers!"

Two other Klingons are on their feet, barking out battle cries, making weapons out of whatever they can rip from the walls.

"What the _hell_ is going on back there?" Uhura shouts.

"Code black!" Jim calls back, slamming his palm down on the emergency button and feeling the hard rush of air as the cockpit screen snaps closed. At least Uhura is protected, which is good, because he can't spare another moment to worry about anything except the rapidly escalating brawl. He strikes a Klingon upside the head with his useless weapon then drops it, hits his harness release and springs to his feet just in time to avoid a head-on charge. Instead of being crushed, he manages to help the Klingon on his way, throwing him into the wall and knocking him out cold.

He has a handful of seconds to realise that most of the captives are still cuffed. It's the chain securing them to the floor that's been worked free. After that, he doesn't have time to think about anything much, as there are double-fisted blows raining down from everywhere. He curses and ducks, blocks and weaves. The shuttle is crowded with the sound of impacts and flying equipment. Everyone is tripping over each other in an attempt to either engage or defend themselves. Spock takes two punishing blows to the face before he can slip out of the corner he's trapped in. Jim accepts a kidney punch in order to sweep the legs out from underneath a different Klingon.

He's breathing hard, spitting out blood, adrenaline pounding through his veins because he knows they can't last much longer.

"Jim!" Spock shouts a warning.

He looks up, barely has time to wince in preparation when he sees a Klingon about to brain him with a fire extinguisher. He's saved at the last minute by Spock, who throws himself in the way, forearms crossed to take the blow. Even with his Vulcan strength, it crumples him, sending him to the deck, onto his knees. Jim doesn't want to think about what it would have done to a human skull.

He stands, punches the Klingon in the face and ignores the sharp burst of pain that tells him his knuckles lost that particular fight. Still, their attacker staggers back into his fellows, buying them a split second for Jim to have a brilliant idea. Desperate, he grabs Spock around the waist, shoves his other hand into the medical store and pulls. Several things come crashing out across the deck where Spock had been kneeling, smacking into Klingons who lift their arms to shield their faces, which also auspiciously blinds them to the item Jim is actually reaching for.

Spock stares at Jim's hand, blinking green blood out of his eyes, leaning heavily on the arm around his waist for support. Jim grins back, probably bloody-toothed and anything but reassuring.

"Clear, goddammit!" He says in his best imitation of Bones, and slides the cardiac stimulator across the floor.

The high-pitched whine builds to a peak. Jim and Spock grab the line-locks and lift their feet from the metal deck. With a pop and a flash, the equipment discharges and all the Klingons convulse and topple over, twitching and growling.

Spock lets go first, his arms clearly injured, landing on his feet only to have them give out beneath him. Jim follows suit, hardly even trying to stand. With great effort, he reaches out and enters the all-clear code for the cockpit release. The screen slips up with a whoosh and Uhura cranes her neck to look at them.

"Hi honey," Jim waves, the words distorted by his fat lip.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the general state of destruction. "Jim Kirk, what the hell did you do?"

Beyond exhausted, he lets his head fall back onto Spock's chest, relieved to feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing where they're sprawled in a corner. "Why is it always my fault?"

From somewhere behind him, Spock raises a hand and pats him once, firmly, on the shoulder.

  
-:-

  
Some thirty minutes later, and less ten unconscious Klingon hostages, Jim puts his shoulder to Spock's underarm and helps him half-fall down the runner into the _Stalwart's_ hangar bay. With a twist, he props the Commander against Nix's hull, then controls his slide to the ground.

"Medic!" he yells, turning his head to avoid shouting at Spock.

Chapel comes jogging over from one of the other shuttles. Two more Klingon contingents had broken free, but none so thoroughly as those aboard Nix. Such was the price of their passage through the Neutral Zone. She hunkers down next to them, scanner at the ready, flashing and bleeping as she passes it to and fro.

"Mild concussion," she mutters. "Fractured ulna, contusions and abrasions, totally unacceptable electrolyte levels." She sits up on her heels and gestures to a stretcher crew. "I'm sending him to sickbay to knit the break and rehydrate."

It bothers Jim that Spock doesn't even object when they load him on. Instead, he casts around until he finds Jim's face and says, "see to the repair of our warp drive, Lieutenant."

Jim just nods, not quite sure what he's feeling.

Chapel stands with him as the stretcher moves away, both of them staring after Spock thoughtfully.

"There's very little more frightening than seeing him get hurt," Christine says softly. "I'm not quite sure why."

"I did my best," Jim snaps. "He insists on being a hero. Just keeps pushing himself, throwing himself in the way."

"Protect you, did he?" she smiles knowingly.

He nods. "You'd be scrubbing my grey matter off the wall if he hadn't."

"You know, Jim, he'd do it for all of us, but I kind of think he _likes_ doing it for you."

He turns his head, stares at her very blue eyes and shiny blonde hair. "What are you, taking over from Bones now? Trying to be my therapist?"

"No. Just making an observation."

"Huh," he says, because he can't formulate anything more coherent. "I'd better make sure we're on course for that Vulcan moon, what's it called?"

"Aspera," she supplies distantly, turning to run the scanner over him, too. "Get some sleep when you've done that. I won't waste my time telling you to get those bruises looked at, but the sleep is an order."

  
-:-

  
Six hours later, Jim sneaks into sickbay. The triage nurse lets him in without question, probably assuming he's there for contusion cream or some such bullshit. He's not. He came as soon as he woke and discovered Spock is still an inpatient. The computer tells him where to look, which is a good thing, because even after two years, the sheer size of the medical facilities aboard an EPAS ship still leaves him disoriented.

Spock is in a small, private cubicle near McCoy's office, two proper walls and two curtains to shield him from the business of the ward. His status is listed as 'stable: recuperative,' which is strange, because Spock always discharges himself to rest in his own quarters, never in sickbay.

"He's not gone because I've kept him sedated."

McCoy's voice makes Jim startle.

The doctor graces him with a withering stare. "I'd do the same for you if I thought you'd let me."

"I'm pretty sure Spock didn't consent to being held hostage in a drugged stupor."

"He has a concussion," McCoy shrugs, "and he needed the rest. Doctor's privilege."

"No wonder he hates coming here."

"Have you slept? At all?"

"Five and a half hours," Jim assures him. "I'll get more once we're sure the engines aren’t going to explode, but I get twitchy thinking of Harris all alone up there on the bridge, making actual _decisions_ without any help."

"Watch it, kid. You're flirting with insubordination, there."

Jim scoffs. "I _like_ flirting. Plus you and I both know the chain of command is hazy at best."

"All the same."

"Is Captain Taylor still down here?"

"No," the doctor shakes his head. "Relieved himself of duty after I cleared him. He's gone to sleep it off in his quarters."

"Was he badly injured?" Jim asks, feeling a little guilty for his less than charitable thoughts about their command team.

"Just shaken, really."

Jim's goodwill evaporates immediately, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

McCoy gestures towards Spock with his chin. "You can sit with him if you like, but no talking."

"What are you, the pity police?"

He pulls an unimpressed face. "You're not fooling anyone."

"Seriously ..."

"Go, sit, pine," Bones gives him a shove, "or whatever it is you're calling it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jim objects, mouth suddenly dry.

McCoy just waves over his shoulder, already turning away to look at charts. Jim figures that since checking on Spock was his sole motivation for venturing into sickbay, and given that Bones is already making the most inconvenient assumptions, he might as well go through with it.

Stealing through the curtains, he finds Spock stretched out on a biobed, his face gently illuminated by the monitors. Whatever Jim is expecting a sleeping Vulcan to look like, it isn't the loose-limbed sprawl that greets him. He takes a couple of steps closer, studying the utter relaxation on those usually severe features. Even under the bruising, the smoothed lines and slightly parted lips make him look a lot younger, a lot less intimidating. A small voice in the back of his head tells him this is what McCoy wanted him to see, the meddling bastard.

Jim pulls the lone chair closer and sits. Spock's face is slightly turned towards him, his dark hair falling back to expose the full sweep of his alien eyebrows. The lids of his eyes are hollowed with fatigue, plunged into shadow by the contours of his face. Resting on the pillow beside his jaw, one hand lies palm facing upwards, the long fingers loosely curled.

Jim fights the sudden clench in his stomach, the almost overpowering urge to reach out and make contact. He tells himself Spock wouldn't want it, wouldn't welcome it, but his memory unhelpfully recalls every instance where Spock has seemed to tolerate his touch and even touch him in return, though Vulcans never do that. Instead of the hand, Jim reaches for his shoulder, holding it firmly through the thin hospital scrubs, feeling the inhuman warmth seep immediately through the fabric and into his own skin. It feels like less of an invasion than a hand, like something Spock might even let him get away with if he were awake. If Jim's thumb rubs back and forth in a little caress, well then, nobody needs to know.

  
-:-

  
Spock wakes to the never-ending bustle of sickbay. He blinks at the ceiling, noting the lingering effects of sedatives in his bloodstream. He frowns.

McCoy.

Carefully, he pushes upright, feeling the dull ache of recently healed bone in his left forearm. He lifts it, turns it under the soft light of the monitor, the dark hair stark against pale skin. He finds no trace of external injury there, and his face, when he catches a glimpse of his reflection, is only subtly tinged with green and brown. A quick mental check tells him he has been unconscious for twelve point one hours.

Waiting on the counter to his right is a glass of water. He drinks it down unhurriedly, giving his body time to acclimatize to the vertical position before easing his feet onto the ground. They hold his weight and he swallows, tasting salt on the back of his tongue. They have replaced his stores of sodium, magnesium and potassium. To warrant such treatment, his levels must have been dangerously low. He resolves to pay closer attention in future.

Stiffly, he dresses in the blacks he finds folded in the first drawer. Someone has laid his lapel pins neatly to one side. He affixes them without his reflection, judging equilateral distances by his fingertips alone. Looking directly at the mirror for the first time, he pauses. A solemn face stares back, perfectly blank, perfectly Vulcan apart from the paleness of his skin and disorder of his hair. His past, he cannot change, but he smooths his palms over his scalp, flattening every wayward strand until they sit familiar and tamed around his face. He watches himself for a few more seconds, scenes from the last twenty four hours replaying themselves in his head. Upon the heels of every unpleasant revelation, every near death experience, there comes the memory of a certain smile, inappropriate laughter and the press and hold of someone else's hands.

He drops his gaze and stares at his fingers where they rest on the counter top. His skin is shiny and slightly green where the abrasions gained from fighting Klingons have been worked away in his sleep. He flexes them, draws his fingertips up to his palm as if enough preemptive discipline might stop him from reaching out as he knows he has been, inappropriately and dangerously, for Jim Kirk.

 

 


	24. chapter 4.7

Pike leans back from his desk and does something Spock certainly does not expect. He laughs. Extensively.

"Oh my lord, Spock, that boy has balls!" the Admiral wheezes, wiping his eyes. "What a plan, good god!"

"It was most innovative."

"Innovative my ass, it was an inspired piece of genius. I damn well _knew_ Taylor hadn't come up with that on his own." Pike sobers and taps a stylus on the desk in front of him. "He was rather round-about with telling me who was responsible. He's normally not quite so cagey about confessing to your exploits since he knows you have no desire to captain a starship. Kirk, however ..."

Spock schools his features firmly. "I was unaware Lieutenant Kirk was seeking promotion."

"Relax, Spock," he smiles. "I'm talking about his previous role in Starfleet. He was second Lieutenant aboard the _Enterprise_ , only one rung down from being the XO, and at his age?" Pike shrugs, "it looked to me like the boy was in a hurry for the center seat."

"He would acquit himself admirably, of that I have no doubt."

Pike falls silent, studies him across the comm line. "He do something Spock? Say something?"

Spock limits his expression to one questioning eyebrow. "I am uncertain of your meaning."

"Oh, I don't think you are." Pike presses the stylus to his lips. "Tell you what, rather than force you to break your journey again in order to pick me up, I'll get our mutual friends to ferry me out to Aspera instead."

"That will not be necessary," Spock counters, feeling strangely exposed.

"Oh, come on now." Pike smiles but his eyes are piercing. "You used to enjoy my company."

Spock swallows, steeples his fingers beneath the desk. "I assure you, I mean no disrespect. I merely wish to convey the order of my captain that you are not avoidably inconvenienced."

"It's no trouble," Pike waves dismissively. "In fact, I know of a Vulcan ship that's headed your way. Leaves tomorrow morning, local. That still shaves four hours off the end journey time to Khitomer."

It is impossible to argue the Admiral's facts, nor is Spock entirely certain why he feels the need to do so. "As you wish."

"While you're cooling your heels out there, I don't suppose you could do something for me?"

"Sir?"

"I've been doing a little talking to the Vulcan High Council," Pike's smile widens to something more genuine.

"Indeed," Spock replies, fighting off a surge of nostalgia. Pike's 'little talks' are code for some serious bargaining.

"They've agreed to let EPAS establish a small refugee aid camp within Vulcan space," he reveals, the light in his eyes a good indication of what a victory that really is. "I want you to scout Aspera for suitable locations. There'll be minimal air support and security for this venture, what with the Fleet stretched as thin as it is, so whatever you find, it will need to have a good level of geographical protection from both long-range scanners and ground assault."

"You believe Nero to be sufficiently personally invested in this conflict to begin actively seeking out refugees?"

"I believe he wants us to hurt," Pike says grimly. "I think it's only going to get worse before the end."

They share a moment's silence over the comms, both recalling the devastation of yesterday's waypoint battle and the mere eighty survivors subsisting on replicator fare aboard the _Stalwart_.

"Perhaps the Klingons pose a more significant threat to displaced peoples than the Romulan Extremists," Spock suggests.

"You may be right, what with the fact that pretty much every Klingon warlord just became an extremist for their own personal cause." Pike runs a hand through his greying hair, perspiration standing out on his skin in the hot air of _Nu'ri Ah'rak_. "Find a nice hidey hole for us, Spock, and then take the intervening time as shore leave. It's been too long."

Knowing better than to argue, he nods. "Understood."

"Pike out."

Spock consciously relaxes. He takes a moment to reflect upon the conversation, identifying exact moments where his emotions threatened to get the better of him. It comes as little surprise that everything can be tied to his guilt over Jim. His morning meditation had divulged several unsettling truths; integrating them had been challenging to say the least. It is a vicious brand of irony that Jim may be the one person in his life he trusts implicitly, yet that selfsame fact has the potential to do significant harm to both of them.

He has questioned Jim's motives time and time again, only to find them without fault. He has never given Spock any indication of ulterior motive or expectation of special treatment. His offer of friendship is honest, to the point, and apparently quite genuine. However, Jim is only half the equation, and his innocence has forced Spock to re-examine himself. He is ashamed of what he has discovered. There are many rational reasons why a degree of professional distance is advisable, all of them quite logical and justifiable. It is only the reasons he dare not speak aloud that give him pause.

Whenever he thinks of drawing apart from Jim, the inner essence of his being rebels with frightening intensity. The very fact he wants it so much makes it dangerous. Vulcans should not yearn for external completion, seeking instead to be whole and independent of other beings. Friends are possible, sometimes even beneficial, but not friends like this. Not those that seem so valuable as to eclipse judgement and influence thought. Whether the failing is his own or simple misfortune, he cannot be certain. All that remains is to eliminate the cause.

His preference is irrelevant. What Spock actually wants is inconceivable, because he will always be seeking something, holding tightly, grasping firmly, forever needing _more_.

-:-

Jim looks up as the lift doors open and Spock steps into Engineering. He and Scotty have been working on re-routing power around the irreparably damaged components without losing any of the extra speed generated by their innovative organic warp matrix. It's demanding work and Jim's been grateful for the distraction.

"Mr. Scott," Spock says, bypassing Jim all together. "Please ensure that the senior staff are aware there will be a briefing at oh seven hundred hours tomorrow in the main lecture theatre."

"Does that mean we've got a little more time for these repairs, Commander?" Scotty asks hopefully. "Because it would sure make a difference to me and my crew."

Spock glances around the sea of tired faces in Engineering. "Of course, Lieutenant. Our scheduled departure has been delayed approximately thirty six hours to facilitate a rendezvous with the ship transporting Admiral Pike to our location. You may allocate whatever time you wish for the completion of repairs, provided that a minimum of twenty Echo Delta shuttles receive tech staffing beginning at oh eight hundred hours tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," Scotty beams, "but why the shuttles?"

Spock frowns slightly, giving Jim the sense that he's in a hurry and isn't welcoming further questions.

"Details will be available at the briefing," he says, confirming that theory.

"You say jump and we jump, Commander," Scotty sighs good-naturedly.

Spock's brows flicker at the expression, but he just turns to Jim. "Please inform both Alpha and Beta crews that they may stand down from active duty for the next fourteen hours unless their work is essential to repairs."

Jim makes a note in his PADD and forwards it to the department heads, then sets a ship-wide memo about the early morning briefing. "Mind telling me what's going on?"

Spock inclines his head stiffly. "Follow me."

Scotty has restored power to the main turbolifts, and Jim was grateful for that right up until he finds himself standing in one with Spock, everything uncharacteristically tense. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths and attempts to ignore the way his pulse is hammering in his ears. It's the same feeling he gets before a deployment; as though lives depend on his course of action.

Spock exits the turbolift ahead of him, eyes straight ahead and Jim's concern ratchets up a notch. The Commander still looks like shit warmed up, his face littered with artfully repaired bruises and lingering patches of sealed abrasions. His hands, where they're exposed, are exactly the same. Jim clenches his teeth against the thought that Spock might have been more seriously injured than previously thought, that Bones has been keeping it quiet, that the whole thing in sickbay had been about giving him a chance to...

"Jim," Spock says suddenly, coming to a halt outside his own quarters. "To facilitate the proper administration of Prime Division, we can no longer be friends."

Momentarily floored, he squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees stars. "Excuse me? You needed to call a morning briefing for that?"

Spock is looking over his shoulder, carefully avoiding his eyes. "Whilst a degree of amity is preferable between Points, especially those in positions of Divisional authority, I can no longer justify the potential for emotional compromise if we maintain our current relationship."

"Wait," Jim exhales in frustration. "We have a relationship?"

Spock does look at him then, as though daring him to deny it. "Yes."

Swallowing a nauseating wave of exultation and panic, Jim takes half a step forward. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Spock says coldly.

"You can't say we have a relationship and not owe me an answer." Panic is slowly being replaced by a creeping sense of outrage, because this is what always happens, how it always ends, everything just variation on a theme.

"I have attempted to explain my motivation."

Jim studies his face for any sign of emotion and finds nothing. Whatever this is, it's too big for Spock to express, too involved for him to be anything other than perfectly Vulcan about it. He feels a crushing sense of loss, having grown used to Spock being a little less guarded around him, knowing that on top of everything else, he will miss that connection wholeheartedly.

"Damn you," he says quietly. "Why are you doing this?"

"It is necessary."

"The hell it is," Jim counters, feeling the anger form around him, familiar as armor. "I've been so damn careful not to step over the line. What's your problem? Is it because I'm human? You worked with Ashe for years, so I don't buy that, and you can't pretend she wasn't emotionally invested in you, because we both know that's bullshit."

"The nature of my professional relationship with Lieutenant Ho was..."

"A total fucking mystery to you, right up until the end," Jim cuts in, wondering how he went from wanting to protect Spock to throwing painful revelations in his face. "Whether or not you reciprocated, she considered you a hell of a lot more than just her Point Two."

Spock's eyes narrow and his jaw bunches beneath cleanly shaven skin. "Do you seek to provoke me?"

"All I'm after is the truth," Jim spits, "not that you'd know what that is."

"Do not make the mistake of assuming I shall continue to overlook your discourtesy."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I give a shit."

Spock turns abruptly, enters his code and steps into his quarters, Jim hot on his heels.

"Oh, like hell are you running away from this."

Spock stands with his back turned, fists clenched at his sides, tension visible in every line of his body. "Leave now, Lieutenant."

"No," Jim shakes his head.

Spock makes a cutting motion through the air with one open palm. "You will leave, now, or I will put you on report."

"So, do it."

There is deadly silence and utter stillness. He turns, cold and dangerous, then there is the eyebrow.

"Lieutenant Kirk," Spock says, his voice clipped and precise. "You will leave my quarters immediately. You will consider yourself suspended from active duty. Any further inappropriate behaviour will result in your being confined to the brig. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

What Jim does next is only what his nature dictates; he steps up and presses himself against the edges of Spock's personal space. Alarm bells are going off in his head, but all he can think is how angry he is, how beyond it he feels. Spock's eyes flash, his nostrils flare with a quickly indrawn breath, and to Jim it feels like a small victory. To push like this, past the careful lines Spock draws around himself, it opens an ache in Jim's gut that's almost painful in its intensity.

"What? Got so good at lying you've forgotten what the truth feels like?" he asks mockingly, whisper-soft at such close range. "Do you even know who you are anymore?"

"I am Vulcan," Spock hisses.

"Say it again and maybe it'll mean what you want it to mean."

"It holds only one meaning."

Jim hangs his head and laughs through his nose. It makes him vulnerable, it's designed to do so as a deliberate taunt, and the sudden clench of Spock's hands in Jim's field of vision means that's understood. He's offered a body language 'fuck you 'at the most basic level. A shiver runs through Spock's slender frame, uncontrolled, uncontrollable.

"This is dangerous," Spock says tightly, in realization. "Leave."

"I won't."

Spock's self-control falters and a contemptuous look flickers across his face. "Of course you will."

Jim swings before Spock has time to react, the well-placed blow collecting cheekbone so hard it turns his head.

"Shit!" Jim gasps, equal parts shocked and furious. "You're the one who's doing the leaving! You'll throw yourself into a war zone, into crazy, dangerous, impossible situations but then you run from me; I don't get it. I'm too emotional, is that what you're thinking? That I'm not Vulcan enough? I guess this is just proving you right."

Slowly, Spock turns his head front and center again; his eyes are blacker than space.

Jim's throat closes over, choking him. Chest tight, he struggles to draw in enough air to speak, the injustice robbing him of all his good intentions. All he wants to do now is make Spock hurt. It's an ugly feeling, reflected in the bare-toothed smile on his face and the adrenaline that sets his hands shaking. He's been here before a thousand times over, the images come crashing down from the inside, pushing relentlessly outwards, made of blood and bone and teeth and boiling anger because it's the only thing between him and heartbreak.

"Coward," Jim taunts, still grinning, still hating himself. "For all your lofty ideals and precious logic, you're just as fucked up as the rest of us, you just don't know how to admit it." He plants a finger in the air between them, "You let me close and that scares the ever-loving shit out of you, doesn't it? If you're so intent on being the perfect Vulcan, how do you reconcile the fear in your eyes? Where's the fucking logic in _that?_ "

With a roar, Spock backhands him across the face, sending him sprawling over the table with a clatter of chairs and the screech of skin against plastic as Jim scrabbles for purchase. Before he has a chance to recover, Spock is already on him, fingers twisted in the cloth of his uniform, the material gives with an audible rip. Jim struggles, lashes out, connects several times before Spock captures his wrists in one hand, wrenching them up behind his back with the strength of several humans. It _hurts_ and it's so damn familiar.

"Feel better?" Jim gasps, torn between laughter and tears, but just glad one of them has snapped.

Spock drags Jim by his shirtfront towards the door. "Leave!"

Jim swirls his arms and breaks the hold with a downward stroke that tips them both off balance, his hip and shoulder into Spock's torso. It's the momentum and the surprise that make Spock stagger, because it sure as hell can't be the mass. They tumble backwards until they slam into the sleeping partition. Their legs tangle but both refuse to give ground, so they rebound into the shelving hard enough that it takes Jim's breath away, head bouncing off a corner so that for a moment he sees stars.

Stunned, he finds his hands suddenly free of Spock's tight grip. His wrists are blossoming purple and red, chafed and burning. Both of them are collapsed up against the corner of the room, Spock's body pressing Jim into the unforgiving surface. This close, Jim can see more than fear Spock's eyes.

"I fucking _knew_ it," he curses before grabbing Spock's hair and arching up to claim an open-mouthed kiss.

Spock freezes, hands splayed mid-air, grasping at nothing.

Jim pulls back to look him in the eye. "Don't you leave me hanging," he growls, fingers tight against Spock's scalp.

Spock carefully takes one of Jim's hands by its swollen wrist and there is a moment where this could end with Jim dumped in the corridor. Instead, he just holds it loosely while his other hand finds Jim's chest and lingers. Those eyebrows are almost horizontal in distress and he's breathing through his mouth, something he doesn't even do even when he's running.

Instinctively, Jim chooses that instant to yield a little, allowing some of the rage and frustration to slip away.

He finds momentary clarity in knowing that his life doesn't always have to be about walking away even when he's holding out for someone. It causes a powerful flash of compassion, one that makes him exhale in shaky relief, because he wasn't even sure he was capable of feeling something that wholesome anymore. Memories clamor through his mind; Spock sleeping in sickbay, Spock almost-smiling, Spock saving his life, Spock across a chess board ... just _Spock_.

No doubt his thoughts are sensed through fingertips; all the yearning beneath Jim's skin. Slowly, Spock's head bows until it presses against Jim's neck, his shoulder. It exposes one perfectly pointed ear within easy reach, and Jim wouldn't be Jim if he didn't turn his head and kiss it. A hot gust of breath against his neck is his reward and the warmth of it pools low in his stomach. He guides Spock's hand from his heart to the base of his throat, holding it there with his own, thinking back to a moment when he'd unwittingly predicted the shape of things to come.

Spock lifts his head, lips parted, and stares. With his strength, he could end a human life so easily. The knowledge shows in his eyes as a quickly-masked flash of fear. Beneath his fingers, Jim's pulse races. Spock swallows, perhaps unable to look away, perhaps aware he's betrayed himself already.

With conviction, Jim steps forward, pushing his throat against Spock's palm to kiss him again. Both of them exhale, parting lips to release the sound. The hand at Jim's throat flexes, the thumb sliding up to the point of his jaw, tilting it so that Spock has better access. From there, it's a bare few centimeters to a mind meld and Jim realizes he wants it so much he's shaking.

"Do it," he says firmly against Spock's mouth. "I want you to know. Please do it."

The sound Spock stifles makes Jim wonder if he's underestimated the significance of this gesture to Vulcans, but there's no time for second thoughts because hot fingers are pressing against his cheekbone, his temple and his jaw.

"My mind to your mind," Spock whispers, low and hoarse in a last ditch battle for control. "My thoughts to your thoughts."

Jim has a moment of screaming disorientation. It's so different from what he expects; swirling chaos against a dark maelstrom of need and denial and iron will. The only thing that seems right is the way Spock feels; a warm, dry sensation, spicy on the back of Jim's tongue in a way he'll never be able to adequately describe. He latches on to it and pours out all his want and confusion. It makes Spock arch against him, mutter his name, press his lips against Jim's throat with a thrill of teeth. Jim lets his head fall back and concentrates on breathing, eyes partially blinded and open to the ceiling. It's what's going on inside his head that really matters.

Spock uses his free hand to frame Jim's face, the palm flat, not to dominate the meld, just to hold him in place so he can stare with ill-concealed amazement. Jim finds a smile from somewhere and offers it up like a sacrifice. He feels Spock surrender then, feels it inside his head. It's visceral and undeniable.

"Oh hell yes," he says, pushing off from the wall to claim it.

Everything spirals out of control from there. Spock doesn't need a hand on Jim's face to maintain the meld, they're touching so closely in so many other places. There's the clatter of objects knocked from a desk, tinkling as they hit the ground. Muffled curses arise when the act of stripping a shirt separates them for several breathless seconds. Occasional flashes of pain punctuate the flow when fastenings are ignored or clothing catches at them in haste, but it only serves to heighten the desperation, the frantic pace of their coming together.

It's hot and dry in Spock's quarters. The back of Jim's knees hit the edge of the bed. Spock gives him a shove, then follows, pressing him down in a shock of hot skin, hands possessive and confident. Not to be outdone, Jim arches in just the right way and takes them both in hand. Again, Spock's head falls to his shoulder, and Jim grins in triumph. Spock's body is strong and beautiful, full of long lines and well-healed scars. Jim wants to learn it all, starting with the delicate skin exposed at his hairline, just behind his ear. He brings his lips down upon it, darts his tongue out to taste it and thinks of the many times he's wanted this without knowing, ached to give in to a desire he hardly even let himself believe in.

Spock raises his head, wonderfully dishevelled. "Truly?" he whispers. It's the first thing he's said in a long time and the emotion in his voice is unexpected.

"Longer, even," Jim grins, then uses his grip to remind Spock what else he's wanted to do, and loves the glimpse of pleasure on Spock's face. Loves it.

Jim rocks them together, revels in the feel of them, holds them tightly in his hand, better than he imagined. Spock is far from passive, his strength not so tightly leashed anymore, his grip on the bruising side of comfortable, not that Jim cares. He grins through it, wraps a leg around narrow hips and bites down on Spock's bottom lip. Tomorrow, he's going to press into any bruises with his own fingers and remember. Spock shudders as the thought bleeds across.

It's been quick and hard and unforgiving, but Jim knows he's ready when Spock pushes back demandingly on one of his knees. He's been ready forever. Spock rolls behind him, finds his way with those clever fingers. Wet heat sits against him and Jim braces his hands against the wall for purchase. Spock presses into him slowly, just careful enough to make it good, but rough enough that Jim is sure he's not the only one out of control. It hurts like hell, but Jim feels little less empty inside, like his broken edges are sliding against those of Spock's and almost, if not quite, corresponding. He should have known the sex would be like this; simultaneously safe and the most dangerous thing he's ever done.

He feels their connection more fully now, realizes through the meld that Spock is still holding back, still being careful. Jim moves harder, snatches a messy kiss over his shoulder and purposefully concentrates on how good Spock feels inside him, how his hand feels around him. It's a cheap trick to play on a telepath, but Spock ought to know by now that when it comes to getting what he wants, Jim has unhealthy boundaries.

Spock's hands grip more tightly, he buries his face in the nape of Jim's neck and although Jim can already feel the edges of their release, he manages to ignore the fire in his muscles and push back at it with his body. It flares brighter, taking them both harder. Spock is still a few seconds behind him, clinging to the remnants of his predefined shape of the world. That just makes the clench of his hands on Jim's body all the more poignant when it happens. Although he can't watch it, Jim knows Spock is beautiful when he comes, can feel it in the way his body moves.

Breathless, they stay pressed together, Spock's knee buried in the back of Jim's own, the weight of him pressing Jim down into the mattress and into the wall. Neither move because they both know the heat and the crush of it make Jim feel safe and Spock feel _something_.

Jim reaches down to his chest where one long hand rests limply and brings it to his lips. "I want to stay," he says as the meld slips away, his bruised lips moving against smooth whorls on pale fingertips. Behind him, he can feel Spock's turn his head and press his face against a shoulder blade. All alone inside his head, Jim's left to guess what that might mean.

-:-

He anticipates that Spock will want to clean up, but what he doesn't expect is the way he lets them tangle together in a different kind of mess when they're dry. Spock is inhumanly warm against him, but he's got the lean lines and soft, blanched skin of a dyed-in-the-wool spacefarer. Possessively, Jim pushes him back into the bed and maps those textures with his hands. One drifts down to a hip, gripping, while the other reaches Spock's face. Fingertips press against swollen lips, a precursor to the kisses that follow.

Spock is pliant but not passive. His hands are strong, shaping and holding with a surety Jim hasn't expected. It isn't that he's unfamiliar with men, but the last time he'd been little more than a boy. The sex had been boyish. This touch is firm and confident; a man's touch. It's like everything Spock is as a person gets traced out on Jim's skin; all the surety, all the fear, all the self control destroyed. It's bewildering.

"Do you think," Jim asks, moving his teeth against Spock's skin and worrying the marks he's already made there, "we could have made this any harder on each other?"

Spock has to wait until Jim frees his mouth to reply. "Perhaps."

"We _are_ going to be okay after this," he says, moving onto his elbows to stare down at Spock who is all loose-limbed and relaxed for once.

"Jim," he says, dark eyes strangely gentle, "we have never been okay."

He realizes that given everything, it really shouldn't come as such a surprise.

-:-

The computer wakes them for the morning briefing and they rouse from within a warm hollow, pressed up against each other, smelling faintly of sex and a lot like whatever Laundry uses to clean the sheets. Jim is reminded that Spock doesn't always sleep at night by the slightly confused look he's given. That, together with the unexpected press of so much naked skin makes him lean in for a kiss while Spock is still disoriented and off his game.

Their lips move languorously, replete with the burn of morning stubble and chapped skin. Jim takes a moment to appreciate the feeling of Spock's tongue seeking his own, chasing into foreign territory, crossing lips with confidence. The memory of last night ignites within him, forcing a heartfelt moan into the pause between this kiss and the next.

"We will be late," Spock tells him seriously, even though his hands don't let go.

"No way, we've got ..." Jim glances at the clock and then back at Spock incredulously. "Who sets their default alarm for fifteen minutes?"

"I rarely have cause to rely upon it to wake me."

"What even?" Jim exclaims, leaping from under the covers and throwing himself into the small bathroom.

"I shall, of course, excuse any tardiness on your behalf."

"Get in here!" Jim shouts over the sound of running water. "You smell like me and everything we did!"

Already aware of that fact, Spock swings his legs over the side of the bed, and in the privacy of the moment, allows himself a small smile.

If anyone at the morning briefing makes note that Spock arrives exactly on time rather than early, or that his hair is uncharacteristically wet from a real water shower, nothing is said. Jim schools his features and pretends to study the flimsy in his hands. They're going looking for a place to build a safe haven. It's perfect for the way he's feeling today. All he can think about is how his cuffs and his collar press divinely against all the right places.

 

 


	25. chapter 5.1

Spock stands with his feet braced on the uneven ground and stares upwards towards the irregular cave mouth some two hundred and fifty two point six meters above. At the jagged edge stands a single black-suited figure, silhouetted against the midday sun. As he watches, Jim locks off his line, holding it taut, and inches backwards until only his toes grip the land's surface. When he pushes off into space, Spock is powerless to stop the small lurch in his stomach, even if none of it shows on his face. Jim falls through the air, his balance perfect, the pendulum effect bringing him lightly into contact with the sinkhole wall as he abseils expertly, springing away again and playing out more line.

Spock drops his eyes, begins to coil his own rope, gloved hands sluicing off the worst of the soiling as he does so. The cave environment is chill and damp, the darkness barely penetrable even to his superior vision. It would not have been his first choice as a venue for the proposed aid camp, but he cannot fault Jim's logic. Admiral Pike requested a location that provided exceptional natural defenses.

Jim's boots hit the floor with a squelch. Disconnecting, he weaves his line into a complex figure eight between his elbow and shoulder. Smiling brightly, his teeth very white in the single light buoy they have deployed, he takes in their surroundings with enthusiasm.

"We'll take it!" he pronounces, smile growing impossibly wider.

Alone with Jim, Spock allows himself the smallest of answering smiles. "We have yet to complete our safety and logistics survey."

Jim's hand claps him on the shoulder soundly, gripping his suit and pulling him around to stare into the newly illuminated depths. He flings out a hand expansively. "Kitchen through there, a dining room, then deck out back with a hot tub," his blue eyes are laughing in his earnest face. "Can't you see it?"

"It is highly unlikely that the Health Ministry will fund a hot tub," Spock replies, solely for the anticipated reaction from Jim.

On cue, he laughs. "We'll call it a hydrotherapy rehabilitation pool or something. Now, let's get this done. McCoy's planning a barbecue."

They deploy the other two buoys and are graced with their first real impression of the cave's size. Jim whistles and Spock internally acknowledges the sentiment. This space is ample for their needs. It rises gently to a domed ceiling replete with bats who scatter noisily as the buoys float closer. Jim makes a face as guano rains down, splattering across their visors and suits. Unfortunately this means that Jim is now staring at the ground.

"Those are the biggest fucking cockroaches I've seen in my entire life," he pronounces, half awed, half disgusted, and looks up. "Ever."

"They are disproportionately large compared to this planet's other invertebrate species," Spock allows. "Although given the limited nature of the initial exploratory survey, it is possible we have been mislead."

"Planet of the giant insects. What do they _eat?_ " Jim continues, glancing around the cave for some source of food and failing to find one.

"Jim," Spock prompts, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah?"

Spock just lifts his eyebrow higher.

His face is blank for a moment, but Spock can see the moment realization dawns, then repulsion replaces confusion. Still, buried beneath the very understandable human response, Spock detects a hint of perverse, childlike fascination with the concept.

"Someone's got to eat it, I guess," is all Jim says, not quite hiding his scandalized smile. "Unless we want to be hip deep in guano."

"We should endeavor not to disturb this delicate ecosystem when planning the installation."

"I'm guessing we're going to have a hard time campaigning for the rights of shit-eating bugs, but it's worth a try," Jim acknowledges, taking a few slippery steps further into the cave. "Although," he continues thoughtfully as his stride firms and his boot-strikes become audible, "the place kind of opens up back here, come have a look."

Spock obliges.

The reason for the environmental shift is instantly obvious. The ground is sluiced clear by shallow, fast-moving water over an area of approximately six hundred square meters. Spock drops to one knee, the current eddying around him and lapping at the folds of his suit. The small, limited capacity tricorder is still able to confirm his hypothesis.

"The water is mildly acidic," he announces, straightening and handing the instrument to Jim. "The limestone has been dissolved by both erosive and chemical action over thousands of years."

Jim looks up from the screen, his eyes taking on a distant bent that Spock has learned to associate with his more creative moments.

"Let's build it here, on struts. The water can still run under it and the bats can be our guard dogs." He smiles again, this time wryly. "I almost hope Nero does try something, just so he can meet our friends."

Spock turns, following the direction of Jim's pointing finger, but it remains unclear whether he is referring to the bats or the cockroaches.

"The emotional benefit seems to be significantly outweighed by the potential risks," he feels obliged to say.

"You totally agree with me," Jim says, eyes dancing. "Admit it."

"It would be advisable to return to camp," he redirects, knowing that Jim is capable of taking that for an admission. "I anticipate the climb will take approximately forty two minutes to complete, by which point there will be little daylight remaining for our overland journey."

"Got to be home before dark," Jim translates, then rubs his palms together gleefully. "God, I love climbing!"

Spock trails behind, reeling in the buoys as Jim negotiates the unstable guano hill on his way to the base of the sink hole.

Spock anticipates they will debate the logic of who will be lead climber. Spock will win and Jim will pretend to be annoyed. They will make the climb quickly and safely with a by-now familiar degree of healthy competition and then return to camp in the ATC, with Jim behind the wheel. There, Spock predicts that Jim will demand his attendance at Doctor McCoy's impromptu barbecue. Spock will not object too vociferously. Tonight is, after all, considered the only shore leave they can expect until after _Ql'tomer_.

Standing shoulder to shoulder at the base of the sinkhole, hearing Jim's opening argument about being the more experienced climber, Spock keeps his eyes fixed on the sky and allows himself a moment to appreciate the way Jim's inherent unpredictability has become comforting and familiar.

-:-

Jim has to hand it to McCoy; the man does a mean barbecue.

Aspera is a little jewel of a world, so humid and full of life that he's forced to love it despite its changeable weather and impressively mountainous terrain. He hasn't seen the horizon since they arrived because it's constantly blocked by trees or summits, and now it looks like he's going to spend the rest of their stay working down a great big hole in the ground. A hole filled with guano. A hole filled with guano, gigantic cockroaches and Spock.

It could be worse.

He puts down his plate on the grass, careful not to upset anyone else's things. They're crowded around the decent-sized blaze Chekov is tending, all sitting on packing crates, thermal blankets and fallen logs. There are several other groups around similar fires, it being impossible to warm everyone around a single one, but all are a pleasant mix of crew from all areas. McCoy mans his grill and spit with the dedication of a master at work, scowling at everyone who approaches unless they have a plate in their hands and are asking for seconds. Jim has already had an extra helping of whatever the hell animal McCoy is roasting, and even Spock has retrieved an additional baked tuber from the glowing coals. Night is falling and without the pressing need for Alpha and Beta shifts, both crews are still present and largely awake.

They've managed to replicate a little of the vaguely alcoholic cider served among the Diplomatic Corps, thanks to Scotty's ingenuity and Spock's blind eye. It's a little sweet, but it fizzes nicely on the tongue and is chilled enough to take the heat out of McCoy's secret sauce.

The silence that has reigned while everyone fed themselves slowly dissolves into pockets of conversation. Around the fire, knees are angled and seats shifted to form natural enclaves and small groups. To his left, Chapel is holding court, a gaggle of adoring engineering and internal services people smiling up at her while she recounts some humorous tale or another. To his right, Spock sits quietly, plate on his knees, cider untouched on the ground beside his feet. It hadn't taken much convincing before he'd agreed to attend, and whilst Jim would like to attribute that to either his debating skills or the attraction of his presence, it is far more likely that Spock had already made up his mind to go, and simply indulged him in the anticipated verbal sparring as a friendly gesture. Sometimes, Jim fears Spock understands him too well.

Several crewmembers come up over the course of the evening, to sit and chat with both of them. Some of it is political currying, because having your face known to the DivCO and DivPoint One is generally a good thing, but even more of it is genuine camaraderie. Here, again, is that deep-seated respect they have for Spock, the look in their eye and slight nervousness that speaks of something bordering on more than the professional. All of them like him, perhaps some of them even love him, not that Jim could even imagine Spock comprehending that reality, not after the incredible distance he'd seen during the meld.

Jim shifts slightly, jostling the cutlery on his own abandoned plate, drawing Spock's attention.

The face that turns his way is pale in the evening light, dark hair melting away into the shadows.

"This is good for the crew," Jim observes to break the silence that has settled between them.

"I believe you are correct. An ongoing heightened state of alertness has detrimental effects on the wellbeing of many races, especially humans. An opportunity for relaxation, however brief, is advantageous."

Jim turns back to contemplate the fire. "Especially since we're not going to get another chance like this for quite a while."

Spock continues to stare at him. "Our _Ql'tomer_ brief is hardly that comprehensive. It is unlike you to be pessimistic."

Jim gives him a serve of his own eyebrow trick. Spock replies in kind, which only makes Jim laugh and shake his head, fighting down the totally inappropriate urge to lean in and put an arm around him. Whatever changed last night, it is still uncertain and new. Unspoken rules lie between them; tangible in the careful distance they maintain in public. He catches Uhura's knowing look from across the circle and dampens his smile. Their secret is not so secret; probably hasn't been for a while. Still, few people outside of Nix's crew will know either of them well enough to be sure of anything. With what's at stake though, he's kind of grateful that Spock is Vulcan and not given to public displays of affection. Jim really doesn't want to screw this up. Not the thing with Spock, not his job, not any of it. His life is dangerously perfect right now; the realization brings a sudden plummeting feeling to the pit of his stomach.

The last of the repair crews stagger out of the treeline to a round of spontaneous applause. The _Stalwart_ is mobile again.

"They've fixed our magnificent ship," he observes.

Beside him, Spock looks upwards towards the glint of the _Stalwart's_ low orbit. "I shall have to commend Lieutenant Scott," he says quietly, with no need to check the time. "Repairs have concluded two point six hours before schedule."

"Surprisingly, shore leave is a great motivator.”

Spock's face is familiarly blank, but his eyes express the depth of warmth his voice does not. "I am rarely surprised."

Despite his earlier resolve, Jim feels his face warm and turns his head away from the heat of the blaze to hide it. Subtle, Kirk, real subtle.

From around the fire, the call goes out for music and singing, capitalising on the atmosphere of celebration. Uhura declines to go first. Charitable of her, in Jim's opinion, considering that the quality of her voice would doubtless discourage others. There's some cat-calling and good spirited heckling, but finally, Scotty straightens his spine and, a little red-faced, launches into a rollicking tune about a man with a dog who likes whiskey and soda. The chorus is predictable, and many people join in by the second refrain.

It's loud and rambunctious and very, very human.

Jim looks over at Spock, notes the perfection in his posture, and bumps his shoulder gently. "I'm going to walk off dinner. Join me?"

"That would be acceptable."

They stand and Jim catches Bones glaring at him. He mouths 'what?' with his most innocent expression in place. The doctor frowns mightily before turning back to the spit, his hoarse voice joining the rest of the crew bemoaning the fate of Scotty's dog.

Jim casts his gaze into the night, still blinded by the intensity of light they're leaving behind. "There's a cliff about a click away."

"I recall."

They walk for some time in silence, the sound of enthusiastic applause following them into the forest. Somebody takes up a guitar after that, barely loud enough to be heard as the foliage begins to screen them. The sun is setting but the first moon has already risen. They have more than enough light to negotiate the well-worn animal track.

Jim frowns at the path. "We're not going to get eaten by something, are we?"

"Had you been paying attention in the briefing this morning, you would know that Aspera is home to only one large carnivorous predator, and that it is not prevalent on this continent."

"That's not a no, Spock."

"There is always your phaser."

"I'm not carrying ..." Jim stops dead and turns. "You brought your phaser to the _barbecue?_ "

"Jim, we are currently engaged in covert aid work along the border of Klingon space, in an area where Nero is frequently sighted, with minimal protection from Starfleet and a warp drive that is only recently repaired," Spock lists calmly. "I am unlikely to abandon my weapon at any stage of our deployment."

"Okay," says Jim, sticking a finger in the air between them, "point taken, but you're sharing a tent with the rest of us, so if you sleep with that thing and wind up shooting me in the ass or something, you'll have Bones to answer to."

"It would be dangerous and illogical to sleep with a weapon capable of causing serious injury."

"Glad to hear it."

"I always ensure it is on the lowest stun setting before retiring."

Jim throws his head back, chuckling into the night sky. "Totally reassuring, really."

"I am gratified that my security measures amuse you."

"Huh," is all he replies, setting off again. Spock follows as the path only allows for single file.

The temperature starts to drop rapidly now that the sun has set, and Jim is glad of his thermal blacks. Neither he, nor Spock, have retained their outer EVA suit, covered as they were in bat guano and silt. They hung them side by side outside the row of tents assembled in the lee of the limestone overhang sheltering their temporary camp. Keeping things as low tech as possible makes sense; hostile long-range scanners are unlikely to pick up small hand-held devices the way they would environmentally controlled habitation domes. Still, Jim wouldn't have said no to a decontamination cycle for his suit, or at the very least, a convenient laundry chute. Besides, all of it seems a little moot, what with a few thousand megatons of Constitution Class spaceship hanging above them in orbit. Pretty hard to hide that.

The shadowed and uneven path demands the majority of his attention, but it's a physical concern, leaving his mind free to wander. Instinctively, he knows Spock doesn't mind the silence, probably actually appreciates it, so he puts one foot after the other and keeps pushing the branches out of his face. It takes about fifteen minutes to reach their destination. Even in the dark, Jim can feel it coming. The air quality changes, becomes colder and emptier, drawing them in.

He parts the final branches carefully, finding the edge with his eyes and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk. When he finally looks out across the valley, he's glad he has something to hold onto.

"Wow."

Spock pushes through to stand beside him. "Indeed."

The ledge they're standing on plummets the better part of five hundred meters to a dark tree-clad plateau. Somewhere to their left, the underground river from the cave must finally find an outlet, because the thunder of a waterfall can be heard over the rustle of the forest. Slim silver ribbons weave their way through the forest in the valley, twinkling between branches, forming a beautifully organic network of tributaries that disappear into vanishing points all of their own. A fine mist from the falls catches the light of the twin moons, like rising steam or low-lying clouds.

Spock pulls a tricorder from god knows where and begins taking readings; ever curious.

Jim slings an arm around the tree the way he longs to do around Spock's waist, but doesn't. The Commander is so intense in his observations that he might as well be alone. That's not to say that he is unaware of Jim, because there's not doubt he can recite the distance between them to the last decimal place, or the degree to which his mere presence is affecting the tricorder's readings. Spock's focus is not accusatory, not exclusive like that. Instead, it's an almost childlike wonder at the spectacle before them, the forces that created it and the exact conditions of the moment. That amazing, totally alien brain is so often inundated with unpleasant detail, with necessity and dire constraints, that it's a pleasure to observe it in its natural habitat; in Spock's natural habitat, without the pressures of the job.

"Didn't you ever consider Starfleet Sciences?" Jim wants to know. "Or the Vulcan Science Academy?"

He pauses, hands stilling on the controls. "I considered every option available to me."

Spock's severe profile never changes, but something about his voice warns Jim not to press any further. Questions linger on the tip of his tongue, replete with temptation. He won't ask them, though. It would cross the line Spock has drawn around his past; the one nobody has gotten him to cross. Intellectually, Jim knows something must have happened because not even Spock is that private, but when you're harboring your own dark secrets, delving into someone else's seems a little hypocritical. So, instead of talking, Jim takes a step closer, then another.

Spock looks up, serious and thoroughly alien in the moonlight. The tricorder falls to his side. More than anything, Jim wants to kiss him, but there is so much that could go wrong with that. Also, one desperate fuck does not a relationship make. He's wary of moving too fast, which should be ridiculous, but in this case, just isn't.

Instead, he reaches out and traces the line of Spock's closest eyebrow, the gesture firm and sure, but so much less than it could be. Still, every gesture means more to a touch telepath. With that in mind, it is hardly surprising when Spock leans into his fingertip. The acceptance is heady and really, Jim can't be expected to show restraint in the face of it. They shift together slowly, lips drawing close, barely brushing in the warmth of shared breath. It's almost a kiss, and the nearness of it should make Jim frustrated, but instead it's simply thrilling.

A sudden surge of laughter breaks through the trees, closer to the cliff than the campfire. Someone else is sharing their enthusiasm for a moonlit walk. They have maybe ten seconds before they are no longer alone. Eight of them tick past before they force themselves apart, hands sliding reluctantly away. A couple of ensigns stumble out into the clearing, definitely a little worse for wear thanks to the cider. Despite the poor timing, Jim smirks at how lightweight they are.

"Sorry, Commander," one of them laughs, his arm around the girl, who smiles up at him and Spock and life in general. "We can go if you..."

"No," Jim speaks because Spock shouldn't have to. "We've taken enough readings. You kids enjoy yourselves."

He feels the bite of responsibility and rank as they abandon the ledge. It stings that they have to be so careful while others flaunt their connections without fear of reprisal. Regulations suck harder the further up the chain of command you climb. In the darkness, he seeks out Spock's eyes and finds them downcast. They say that eyes are the window to the soul, and in Spock's case Jim believes it. Small things can be inferred from the tension in his shoulders or the length of his stride, but to Jim, it's his eyes that have always provided the full translation.

He doesn't want to reach for it, fights the urge the entire walk back, but crumbles beneath uncertainty right where the forest ends.

"Wait," he says tightly, resting fingertips on his shoulder.

Spock pauses, then finally lifts his head. Nothing is said, but his fingers come to rest on the nape of Jim's neck, the thumb shifting back and forth once, the grip strong. Something tight and doubtful loosens inside him and he's able to watch Spock slip away into the light without needing to follow.

-:-

More than anything, Spock wants to stay in close proximity to the warmth of Jim's presence. He wants to feel the murmur of emotion beneath his skin, to experience it as he does not allow himself to experience his own. He understands obsession, and the fear of it was not banished by a brief morning meditation. Waking in a space warmed by another body had been quite unsettling; more so for the vulnerability of being unconscious than anything else. Spock cannot remember the last person besides medical staff who has observed him in sleep. Trusting Jim with that had been instinctive in the heat of the moment. The doubts had assailed him only when observing the world from a lectern, the Aspera briefing falling fully memorized from his lips. Jim had sat amongst the crew, a painfully familiar face in a sea of familiar faces, and Spock knew he would have been able to pick him out with his eyes closed.

That morning, the few seconds that followed wakefulness had been the most intense. There is so much he could have given away; more than he is willing to share, despite their physical intimacy. In those fretful moments he experienced what it was to fear something irrationally, and also, to long wholeheartedly for it to continue. The contradiction still sits uneasily in his bones, deeper than his conscious mind can process.

Jim is unpredictable and he is volatile. He is human, with all the internal conflicts and lack of self-awareness that implies. Emotionally speaking, he is akin to nothing Spock has ever experienced. The meld they shared had been deeper than intended, partly due to his own carefully suppressed longing, but also in response to Jim's unexpected psychic tenacity. Intellectually, Spock is aware that adversity breeds fortitude, both physical and mental, but he did not expect to find it honed so finely. Jim's mind is bright and turbulent, as beautiful and filled with destruction as a battlefield.

"Commander," Uhura smiles, falling abruptly into step with him as he skirts the remnants of the campfire.

"Lieutenant," Spock acknowledges, feeling almost disoriented.

"Don't tell me you left Jim in the forest."

After a momentary pause, Spock lifts an eyebrow. "I believe he returned to camp unscathed."

"Because if you leave him in there, you just know he's going to come back at dawn with an army of naked pigmy warriors who want to join the fight against Nero and maybe braid his hair as a side project."

Spock turns and examines his pilot. "That is a remarkably fanciful assumption."

She smiles at him, kind of sad but also carefree. "It's kind of fanciful cider."

"You are intoxicated," he observes, entirely without judgement.

"Yeah," her smile widens. "You should try it. Let your hair down."

Spock tilts his head, feelings of amusement and slight tenderness tugging at the boundaries of his frayed control. "I am content to let you do so on my behalf."

She laughs through her nose and looks at the ground. "Living vicariously will only get you so far," she says, suddenly serious and wise. " _Nar-tor pulaya s'au k'ka'es - k'el'rular tun-bosh._ "

"Accept their reaching in the same way; with careful hands." He inclines his head. " _Nemaiyo._ "

"You're welcome."

Logically, Spock knows Uhura has not been told of what took place with Jim, that she speaks to a general sense of connection rather than something specific. Still, it seems suspiciously poignant.

He remains unmoving and takes a moment to absorb the activity around the camp. With a nod, Uhura leaves him, disappearing amongst the light buoys. At least six dozen crew are still sitting around the dying fires, their voices low and warm with laughter. Numerous tents are softly lighted from within, good-natured catcalls and shouts drifting gently on the night air. When he closes his eyes and opens his senses, an unexpected wave of optimism washes over him. It is tinged with anxiety and loss but those feelings are not dominant. He blinks, casting around for a final glimpse of Uhura's retreating back. With her insight, in another life, he supposes they might have been more to each other, perhaps even friends.

-:-

Jim forces himself to wait a few minutes before re-entering the camp. He uses the time to circle around, to find some other place to exit the trees. It won't convince anyone who's really looking, but who would be? Who would expect a Vulcan of something so illogical?

Of course, there was _one_ person who could be relied upon.

McCoy corners him with a pointed finger as soon as he emerges into the light, his voice low and intense. "You’re a total ass!" He whispers threateningly, “hear me?"

"I hear you," he answers, slightly taken aback by the force of the doctor's admonition, but not wanting to give anything away.

"Jesus Jim, Spock? Really?" McCoy wipes an ash-covered hand down his face. "I don't know what you’re thinking!"

Jim's throat tightens unexpectedly just as his stomach drops away. Pointless to try to hide it now. "Not a whole lot of thinking going on, Bones," he confesses. "Still, it's been, like, twelve hours or something. It can't be that obvious; how the fuck did you know?"

"It's been a hell of a lot longer than twelve hours and I'm familiar with the way your mind works, remember?" McCoy continues in an undertone. "Also, I'm not a blind man."

"Judging by your ex-wife, I'm not so sure."

McCoy tries to look angry but spoils it with a smile. "You're impossible."

"Just statistically unlikely," Jim grins.

"Goddamn Vulcan commanding officers," the doctor grouses, leaning back into his own personal space again.

"You love it."

"Damn well don't," McCoy objects, hands on his hips. "Do you like chasing the impossible?"

"Maybe I do. Maybe I love it."

"You could at least look a little concerned," he sighs, exasperated.

"There are a lot of things in my life that I haven't had because they're difficult or awkward or supposedly irresponsible," Jim finds himself suddenly serious, frighteningly so. "To tell the truth, I'm sick to death of what I should and shouldn't do. Life's too fucking short."

McCoy takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly, watching him all the while from beneath impressive brows. "You must have some kind of balls, kid."

Jim laughs under his breath. "Thanks, I think. You going to report us?"

"Report you?" If possible, McCoy looks even angrier. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Aren't you in charge of that?"

"Don't remind me," he growls. "If it weren't for the fact insanity is practically a prerequisite for this job, I'd have already had you committed. I'm not going to report you, you ingrate."

"I just..."

"Jim," McCoy snaps, taking him by the shoulders again to studying him intently, fingers digging into his skin. "This is thin ice. Very, very thin ice."

"We're capable of being professional." He's slightly angry himself.

"I'm not talking about rules and regulations, man." McCoy gives him a little shake for emphasis. "I'm talking about what happens the next time Spock has to order you into a tight situation, or if he lets himself get clobbered to save your sorry ass again. How's it going to make you feel? Plus, that's totally disregarding the cultural strictures he's breaking simply by entertaining the _notion_ of being with you." He catches Jim's look and nods firmly. "Haven't thought about that, have you? What it means for him to acknowledge what he feels? Jesus, _that_ he feels at all?"

Feeling suddenly out of his depth, Jim swallows. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you need to really think about this, kid, like a fucking adult and a Divisional Point One." McCoy looks sad as he gently releases him, apologetically smoothing the shirt over his shoulders. "This isn't some college workplace romance."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jim frowns, beginning to feel offended. "The whole thing frightens the shit out of me, Bones, especially the part where I couldn't walk away even if I wanted to." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Twelve fucking hours and already I need this more than I've let myself need anything since ... and already I ..." he falters, swallows. "Damn it."

Feeling a little dizzy putting it into words, Jim leans gratefully into McCoy's steadying hands.

"Ah, hell," the doctor sighs, pulling him into a hug that is full of resignation and affection. One hand finds the back of Jim's neck and grips it. "I had to be sure, you know? For both your sakes."

"Don't make me talk about this again," he demands, muffled by McCoy's shoulder.

"I won't, but you'd better mention it to him."

"I'm pretty sure he knows."

-:-

The next day dawns bright and hot, growing into something that's unseasonably warm for Aspera's temperate climate. Jim and Spock are formalizing their initial survey of the cave, taking depth readings and correlating those positions with the powerful scanners aboard the _Stalwart_. It's essential that they accomplish as much as they can, but it's proving difficult given that Spock has insisted that the work is done purely on a voluntary basis. He'd actually gone so far as to encourage the crew to take full advantage of the offered shore leave, even though he was declining more than the evenings off himself. To their credit, a goodly proportion have been honest about their needs and filed for leave. Those that remain are either new recruits and less frayed around the edges, or simply those for whom empty days and too much time to think isn't very beneficial.

Spock speaks to him seriously, his tone familiar and professional. Jim takes notes on his PADD, nodding as he extrapolates each train of thought to its logical conclusion and formulates an appropriate allocation of resources. They part and drift back together over the course of the day, one of them seeking the other out as needed, asking questions and giving reports, coordinating as easily and naturally as breathing.

Sweltering at the lip of the sink hole, Jim pauses for a drink of water from the catering table and uses the edge of his shirt to wipe the worst of the sweat out of his eyes. Pike is due to arrive in under twenty four hours, and believe it or not, Prime Division has actually accomplished a lot with its volunteer workforce. Whether he approves or not, Jim knows the Admiral won't fault them for their dedication to the cause.

Out of nowhere, Spock appears at his elbow, selecting a cup of his own and raising it to his lips.  
Jim shields his eyes against the late afternoon sun, squinting into the brightness. "We're going to have to revise the environmental control recommendations if this is the sort of weather they're going to get."

"According to record, today's peak temperature is a statistical anomaly," Spock replies, placing the empty cup in the appropriate receptacle. "We will be fortunate if the units supplied are able to accommodate such outliers."

Jim nods in agreement. "Funding is tight, but this is bad enough when you're uninjured. Imagine what it would be like with a healing burn."

Spock's eyebrows twitch. "The concept is admittedly unpleasant. However, I believe you have overlooked the natural insulation offered by our chosen location. By nature, subterranean environments experience less variation in ambient temperature." He turns to look at Jim. "It is why so many of the older Clan homes on Vulcan were built into the natural rock formations."

"Was yours?" he asks, then clarifies, "dug in, I mean."

"Yes." Spock's eyes are unwavering. "Our home possessed a rich cultural heritage, dating back to the days of Surak."

"I've seen holos of the type of buildings you're talking about," Jim says consideringly, "but I bet the reality was a lot more beautiful."

"It was functional," Spock counters smoothly, "and logical. However, I admit to a certain pleasing aesthetic within the most ancient foundations of the house. Immediately post-Reformation, Vulcan engineers were still prone to forms of embellishment that are now regarded as unnecessary."

"Bit too emotional?" Jim asks with a smile.

"I infer that it is the lack of efficiency that has led to the practice falling out of favor. Vulcans are not opposed to art or creativity, Jim. Some of us even devote our lives to the arts in their purest form."

"You know,I just missed seeing a Vulcan musical exhibition in San Francisco during my final year at Starfleet Academy," Jim nods, then grins. "I had to pass on the offer of a free ticket in order to stand trial for academic misdemeanor."

"I admit to a total lack of surprise."

Jim laughs, drawing the attention of the nearest bystanders. "Thanks a lot."

"Perhaps you will once again have such an opportunity," Spock says smoothly, pulling out the plans for their final pass of the day, "when Vulcans are less preoccupied with survival and able to devote their lives to that which defines them."

"What about you?" Jim asks quickly, stalling him with a step forwards. "When you're free to do anything, when this is all over, what will you do?"

Spock studies him, a touch of fond surprise in his eyes. "I confess, I do not know."

Jim nods, because he figured as much. As prepared as Spock is for everything, this war has dragged on so long that it's practically impossible for anyone to see beyond it, to believe it might actually end. Planning for something that might never happen, that you might never live to experience, doesn't sound very logical. No wonder Spock can't answer that question. Jim wonders if any of them really can, even as he knows it's essential that they do.

"And you?" Spock asks, an uncanny punctuation to his own thoughts.

Knocking back the last of his water, Jim exhales in satisfaction. "When I figure it out, you'll be the first to know."

 


	26. chapter 5.2

"Hey," Jim says softly, leaning around the corner of the lab door. "Am I disturbing you?"

Spock looks up from the displays stiffly, as though he’s been crouched over them too long. "No, of course not."

He can't help the warmth that floods his face at Spock's words, as though his enjoyment of Jim's presence is unconditional. Maybe that fits. Maybe that's what he's always wanted; no fairytale ending, no impossible perfection, just the knowledge that he's welcome amongst the chaotic jumble of someone's life. As much as Spock is capable of anything disorganized.

"I haven't seen you since Beta shift beamed back aboard," he says, stepping further into the room and coming to rest against the workstation, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "You been working this whole time?"

Spock nods, frowning slightly. "I cannot help but consider the possibility that we have overlooked a crucial detail," he admits. "The Council's decision to support Admiral Pike's request for the establishment of this aid camp is monumental. When one takes into account the degree of Vulcan support for the location ..."

"That's an awful lot of people depending on us, I know," Jim finishes for him. He reaches out, grazes Spock's wrist with his fingertips. "I don't want to let Pike down either."

"It is not merely the Admiral's reputation that concerns me." Spock catches Jim's thumb between his two fingers, staring at their hands as he speaks. "The facility will house several hundred beings. That is a great many people who will entrust their lives to the recommendations we make regarding location, security, defenses and amenities." He looks up, allowing a little of his tension to show. "It is a great responsibility."

Jim studies him, sees none of the doubt he might find in any other DivCO, sees only resolve and competence and a desire to discharge his duty with a perfection that nobody could possibly attain. What Jim had first taken for arrogance and self-assurance is actually the confidence of someone who has made mistakes and now has the experience to know that they will always be costly. Spock carries the memory of Sally Morrison on Odesyus, of Ashe Ho's paralysis, of every minor miscalculation or lapse in observation he has ever made. It isn't hubris or guilt, merely the innate composition of his being. Spock could no more disregard those memories than he could snap his fingers and end the war.

Unable to articulate how that makes him feel, Jim settles his hand more firmly over the warm skin beneath it. "Shift ends in ten minutes. Are you available for dinner?"

"Lieutenants Uhura and Scott have requested my presence in the mess hall to discuss a theory they share regarding a shielded and encrypted internal communications system for the aid camp," he says, with perhaps a hint of apology or regret. "However, you are welcome to join us. I value your input."

"Are you leaving now?"

Spock looks around the deserted lab, the study lamps automatically dim at the waning end of the shift. "I have almost concluded my final review," he says, turning back to the screen. Then he pauses. "If you will wait?"

"Sure," Jim smiles slightly. "I can do that."

He pushes free of the desk and chooses a chair that allows him a view of Spock's profile. He leans back into the conformable surface, feeling the small servos adjust to his posture and cradle him. A hundred small aches manifest themselves now that he has the time to consider the state of his body; the work they have been doing the last twenty four hours is more consistently physical than he's used to. He's earned a few more scrapes and bruises in addition to the ones Spock created, god was it still under two days ago? Jim lets his head rest against the back of the chair and pushes off with his toe, feeling the slight, soothing rock. If Spock is half as tired as he is, he must be dead on his feet.

Even seated over a display the Commander's posture is perfect, his spine straight and shoulder blades drawn in together, face intent with concentration. His whole body is a study in angles and planes, from the points of his ears to the jut of bone in his wrist, the line of his collar bone pressed tightly against the uniform fabric. It's the contradictions that attract Jim, he's certain of it; the appearance of severity in the presence of compassion, of fragility in the face of uncompromising force. Spock is utterly unlike anyone he's ever met, different to anyone he's wanted. War concentrates feeling, makes it seem more powerful and overwhelming, relationships being no exception, he understands that. Still, he can't pass this off as the intensity of their situation. It's so much more.

Spock sits back slightly and gives several routine commands to the computer, saving his analysis and commentary. He stands and pushes the chair in neatly. He turns Jim's way.

"Lead on," Jim answers.

The ship's corridors are far from deserted even with the _Stalwart_ in stand down. It's shift change and the passages are filled with Points and Pilots making their way aft for system checks, while Ops and Techs head their separate directions, PADDs in hands, heads bowed as they catch up on the latest departmental news. An Internal Services Yeoman offers him a hands-free salute with his head as he passes, loaded to the chin with laundry. Jim returns it with a smile.

They step into the turbolift with three other crew and turn to face the doors. Jim doesn't miss the way Spock stands closer to him than he does to anyone else and wonders if it's the Vulcan equivalent of holding hands. That makes him laugh through his nose, which of course, he can't explain to Spock's enquiring eyebrow.

Uhura and Scotty have already claimed a table near the terrarium and appear to be engrossed in printed schematics and a precariously balanced pile of PADDs. The table is in a favored location, but the press of bodies around the patch of plant life has lessened the last couple of days, with most people taking the opportunity to experience it in the flesh, rather than from behind transparent aluminium. Still, the light cast from within the greenery is of a different quality than the overheads, easier on the eyes.

Neither lieutenant looks up until Jim's chair scrapes across the floor, then Uhura flicks a salute in their direction and Scotty mumbles a 'sir' before pushing a PADD across the table and staring at them expectantly.

"We _can_ do it," Scott says firmly. "We have the power, it's just a matter of reconfiguring the firmware to accept and decode rather than simply reroute."

Jim leans in over Spock's shoulder, staring at the mess of code and annotations. He's a smart guy, his aptitude scores would have said as much even if his additional training in EPAS hadn't, but this is just ... he pauses though, frowning as several things click into place.

"This subroutine seems a little unwieldy," he points to it and Spock obligingly tilts the PADD towards the rest of the table. "Why not do away with it all together and just rewrite it from the base code up? That way you're not asking this processor to do something it's not designed to do and you still get recursive behaviour, just with one less component." He looks up to a table of frowns. "If you save the bean counters money, they're more likely to approve the modifications, right?"

"How would you redistribute the workload?" Scotty asks eagerly, leaning forward.

Jim pulls a stylus out of his pocket as Spock hands him the PADD. "See here, here and here? Where you've rerouted the preliminary encryption matrix? Yeah, you need to just let it flow right into the central CPU. It can handle the load, it's the same kind we use in the Echo Delta shuttle navcomps; give it enough juice and it will crunch just about anything in real time. By doing that, you can eliminate that subprocessor and free up the ampage you're going to need for the direct data flow while still maintaining your signal integrity. Probably do it all in a smaller hand-held unit, too."

Spock blinks, Scotty makes a noise that could indicate either intense pain or intense pleasure and Uhura pins him with a horrified kind of stare.

"Marry me?" she asks hoarsely.

"Um, no," Jim laughs. "You're scary as shit."

"It might just work," Scotty manages through the hand that's pressed to his mouth. "It would also reduce frequency impedance for the input parameters."

Uhura nods. "We can drop the band even lower, make it almost subsonic."

"Handy," Jim notes, "if you're trying to fly beneath the radar."

Uhura scrubs at her face with the palms of her hands. "I can't believe that didn't occur to me."

"If it makes you feel better, there's no way in hell I could have programmed that multi-lingual encryption engine," Jim offers honestly. "Everything would come out sounding like a strangled Klingon in a high-helium atmosphere."

Scotty snorts, then turns anxious eyes on Spock in apology.

The Commander has finished entering in Jim's alterations to the design. He places the PADD on the surface of the table and slides it across to his lieutenants. "I am most impressed with your work," he tells them, then flicks his eyes to Jim's and away again. "All of you."

"I can have this ready by the time the Admiral arrives," Scotty promises eagerly, slapping the PADD against his free hand. "You just watch me!"

"If I can pull two people from Ops, I can have the twenty most common Federation languages programmed into the interface by lunch time tomorrow," Uhura chips in. "And maybe high and low Robii, too, since I've just finished updating our own UT."

"Consider your request approved, Lieutenant," Spock nods. "I welcome any progress you may make before our departure for _Ql'tomer_."

"We'll get right on it," Scotty promises, pushing to his feet and all but dragging Uhura out of the mess hall in his enthusiasm.

She pauses only long enough to gather their materials and grin at Jim. "You dark horse."

He waves her away. "If you'd hot-wired enough car radios in your misguided youth and you'd have thought of it, too."

"I do _not_ want to know!" she laughs, letting herself get towed away.

When they're alone at the table, Spock turns to Jim with a slight smile on his lips, almost undetectable. "I, however, _would_ prefer an explanation."

"I'm sure you've read my file," he counters, angling himself to better hide his face. "Juvenile repeat offender and all that."

Spock inclines his head, conceding the point. "Perhaps I overlooked it amidst your numerous other convictions."

"Convictions?" Jim does his best to look righteously offended. "I'll have you know it was only one conviction, and even that only earned me three months."

"Yes, when you were fourteen."

Jim feels the ground drop away a little bit. "Those records are sealed."

Spock's eyes narrow. "They are," he agrees. "Most comprehensively."

Forcing himself to relax, Jim surreptitiously wipes the palms of his hands down his thighs, removing the perspiration. "Good to know."

Beneath the table, Jim feels Spock's knee press into his own, the warmth seeping through two uniforms. It steadies him, that quiet acceptance that Jim might not be ready to reveal everything about himself, all the sordid detail of his past. He presses back firmly, returning the contact and hoping Spock knows it for the thanks it actually is.

"So," he says after a moment, "how long since lunch for you? I'm starving."

Spock actually looks slightly shifty. "Twelve point six hours."

Jim sighs. "That's not lunch, that's breakfast."

"Vulcans do not require ..."

"... the same amount of food, sleep, or oxygen as humans. I know, I remember," Jim finishes for him. "I'm having the lasagna, what about you?"

-:-

In Jim’s quarters, Spock just watches him with quiet curiosity: _what will the human do now?_ It's kind of amusing and _very_ him, leaching any awkwardness out of the situation almost immediately. Jim steps forward, slides a thumb into Spock's collar and kisses him with a smile on his lips. They move together easily, everything now less aggressive. Still, Jim's been wanting this constantly since the first time; it would be a mistake to say things aren't heated. Spock doesn't shiver when Jim pulls at his shirt, but the fine hair on his arms is standing to attention in a desperate attempt to warm him, Jim is close enough to see.

"Cold?"

"Irrelevant," Spock replies, taking his face in both hands and kissing him again.

His quarters are the same ambient temperature as the rest of the ship, so that explains the thicker thermal undershirt. There are several things he could do to make Spock warmer, but only one widens the smile on his face.

"I've got an idea," he encourages, walking backwards with a finger through Spock's belt loop.  
Spock follows him into the bathroom, one eyebrow quirked.

Jim shucks his own shirt and toes off his boots, tossing the clothing into the chute and kicking the boots out of the way. "You're going to like this," he promises, dialling the shower up to the maximum safest temperature. "It's logical," he grins. "We'll get clean at the same time."

"Are you mocking me?" Spock enquires, but he reaches for the hem of his thermal and pulls it over his head.

Jim shrugs and pouts. "Just because I know you appreciate efficiency shouldn't mean I can't use that for my own evil ends."

"I question the logic of two people attempting to occupy a space intended for one and efficiently achieve cleanliness."

Naked, Jim allows Spock to back him into the shower, only hissing a little as the scorching water hits his back. "Sorry, what was that? The shower is _really_ loud."

Spock's lips twist in that way he has of almost smiling. When he steps in, Jim has to admit the cubicle is a little crowded; their faces so close that it's a struggle to focus. Space is at a premium aboard any starship, and he doubts the designers had dual occupancy in mind for this single shower. Still, Spock is being hit by the edge of the spray, the dampness beading his skin with moisture in a very distracting way.

"Does your plan extend this far?" Spock asks, demonstrating that the slightest movement will bring them into contact with the confines of the cubicle.

"Hell yes." He twists Spock under the water and drops to his knees at the same time. "In fact, this is totally the highlight."

Spock's hands fly out to brace against the cubicle walls.

-:-

"Pike arrives in six hours," Jim says, shifting his head against the pillow.

Spock lifts himself on one elbow, the greenness of warmth showing along his chest even in the low light. "You are concerned?"

"No," he shakes his head. "Just ..." he pauses to collect his thoughts. " _Ql'tomer_. It's a big deal. We're flying into a dangerous situation with very little intel. Just because a handful of Klingon warlords see the benefit to some kind of treaty with the Federation doesn't mean shit to the rest of them. They'll happily attack us as soon as look at us, and we're not exactly combat-ready."

"The Federation could not send a vessel of war," Spock argues, extending his arm beneath the pillow so they are face to face. "Such action could easily be misinterpreted as intimidation."

Jim gestures around his quarters at the worn bulkheads, fitful environmental controls and general age of the ship. "And this sends the right message?"

"The Diplomatic Corps are allocated fewer resources every year. They no longer possess a vessel capable of making the journey within the allotted time."

Jim watches Spock watching him, catalogues the brown in his eyes, the generous lips, the slightly irregular curl of his right ear; all things that he'd only really noticed the last few days. "I can cope with us being in the line of fire if we're there to do our jobs," he says. "What I don't like is being thrown in over our heads."

"There is no logic in the Klingons luring us to _Ql'tomer_ merely to destroy us," Spock says softly, reaching out to trace Jim's rounded brow in reciprocation of his gesture on Aspera. "When considering this, the logic of sending the _Stalwart_ becomes clear. We are of little military value and have few technological assets worth seizing. The Klingons are not in the habit of seeking hostages or prisoners of war. Complications are inevitable, but direct confrontation is statistically unlikely."

Jim leans in, rolls against him, takes his mouth in a firm kiss. He needs to feel his body push back, those hands, hot and firm with life. Everything they do is dangerous, every damn thing. This feels so transient. Still, Spock is a lot stronger than him. It triggers something small and scared inside his mind. His heart races, memories cascading through the pauses between contact, between this grip and the next. A heavy body pins him to the bed, hands grip his own, teeth mark his jaw and he feels a jolt of anxiety.

Spock stops dead, stares down at him like he's never seen him before. "There is something wrong."

"No," he denies it adamantly.

"I would not harm you."

"I know that," he snaps, glaring. "I know."

Spock loosens his grip, a small frown gathering between his upswept brows. "I do not understand."

Jim fights down a different kind of fear, the kind that doesn't nauseate him, but is still crisp with potential loss.

The tension eases out of Spock's body slowly, so that it relaxes against him by degrees. His eyes are still filled with questions, definitely acute and far too observant. "What do you want?" he asks.

"You," Jim replies without hesitation. "Right now, just you."

The entire night, Spock is careful not to push too hard or weigh too much, perhaps fighting to seem as human as he can.

-:-

  
Dressed and pressed on the main hangar deck, Jim tries to smother the mix of curiosity and frustration that floods him when the _Tat'sar's_ distinctive hull warps into view. Spock had implied that Vulcans would be conveying the Admiral to the rendezvous, but from his slight stiffening, the choice of vessel is news to him, too.

"Looking forward to catching up with your buddy, Senekot?" Jim asks under his breath.

Spock shoots him a look that is thoroughly unruffled. "I might ask you the same thing."

"Touche."

They exchange no further conversation as Captain Taylor arrives, finishing up a brief conversation with his XO, Harris, who shoots them an anxious look before departing in a hurry. Jim's not sure what there is to be stressed about; the ship's been fixed in record time, the refugees are benefiting from the slow pace of life on board at the moment, and Aspera has proven to be a suitable base for an aid camp. Things are looking up.

True to form, the _Tat'sar_ sends a shuttle to deliver the Admiral, rather than allow intership beaming. Despite the explanation that had finally come his way, Jim's still not clear on whether that's a personal quirk of the ship's bitchy Vulcan captain, or something a little more grounded in physics. The ship is, after all, a highly experimental trans-temporal rescue vessel that's littered with tachyon residue and warp particulates. Actually, looking at it that way, it's reasonable to cut them a little slack in the matter-stream department.

The shuttle's Vulcan pilot executes a precision landing on the _Stalwart's_ scratched but polished deck and powers down. With a hiss and a pop of atmosphere differential, the ramp extends neatly over the starboard wing, giving Jim yet another chance to appreciate the elegance of Vulcan engineering. No support struts or cross-bracing here, just a simple series of self-extruding interlocking panels. It probably weighs half as much as anything designed by Starfleet, too.

"Captain," Pike nods, negotiating the ramp and making his slow way across the deck. "Spock, Jim."

All three of them salute, but the Admiral just nods, his hands occupied with his walking sticks. In Jim's estimation, he's getting better and better at negotiating the world on those calipers.

"You're as brown as a nut," Pike observes, taking in Jim's face with a slight smile. "Spend your shore leave lying on a beach?"

"Actually, down a hole full of bat shit, sir."

Pike's eyebrows shoot up and he glances between his Divisional representatives. "Strange kind of vacation."

"You could say that."

Taylor steps forward deferentially. Regardless of the lack of clarity in their chain of command, the Captain clearly considers himself Pike's subordinate, and well, Jim kind of understands that. Chris has a certain aura of authority which is difficult to ignore.

"I've allocated a briefing room for your private use, Admiral," he says. "I'm sure the Commander and the Lieutenant can bring you up to speed on our preliminary works."

"Works?" Pike repeats, then turns to frown at them. "I thought I told you two to take it easy."

"Hey," Jim fakes outrage. "A moment ago you were admiring my tan."

Stymied, Pike turns to Spock, demanding answers with his eyes.

"I attended a barbecue," the Commander offers in his defense, "undertook a recreational walk and played several games of chess."

"Really?" Pike's voice is laced with sarcasm but his eyes are keen. "Hold the press."

Jim smothers a laugh. "Briefing room two, when you're ready, Admiral."

"Don't think I'm letting you off that lightly," Pike waves a finger at them before taking the lead, "and I don't need directions. I used to live here, remember?"

  
-:-

  
"Well now," Pike leans over the display, throwing his face into the bluish light. "This is exactly what we need."

"Our preliminary survey suggests that the project completion date may be reduced by up to eight weeks by utilizing the cave's natural ceiling rather than constructing an alternative," Spock says, reading from a PADD.

"That's just as long as you don't mind getting friendly with the bats," Jim grins.

Pike waves that concern away. "We can string a huge awning if we need to. Besides, according to the thermal imaging, the bats are concentrated in the cave's mouth, rather than deeper inside." He lifts his head. "How have you solved the problem of ascending and descending into the facility?"

"Initially, supplies can be beamed directly into the construction zone," Spock pulls up the proposal with a flick of his finger across the glassy surface. "This will also allow for large modules to be installed without disassembly and associated consumption of time and resources."

Pike's eyes go wide. "You want to beam tons of materiel directly in there?"

"Mr. Scott assures me it is possible," Spock replies with all his natural confidence.

"I think I need to meet this Mr. Scott," the Admiral says wryly. "He sounds like something else."

"Organic warp matrix," Jim reminds him.

"Oh, he's _that_ guy?" Pike nods and turns his attention back to the display. "Seriously, schedule in a meeting. I'll need his calculations to console Starfleet when I tell them what the plan is."

"Can do, sir."

"Once a power supply has been established below ground," Spock continues where he left off, "it will be a simple matter to install a rank of turbolifts, the surface entrance to which will be easily concealed amongst the natural limestone outcroppings."

Pike looks up, a crooked smile on his face. "I can see you two have really thought this through; good job."

Spock tilts his head. "Expert opinion was sought from Engineering, Medical, Tactical, Ops and Internal Services," he clarifies. "It would have been impossible for two people to formulate comprehensive plans without assistance. At least ..." he pauses to consider, "not without forgoing sleep."

Pike laughs and shrugs with his chin. "Okay, I see you still can't take a compliment, what about ..."

 _Admiral Pike to the Captain's Ready Room. Repeat, Admiral Pike to the Captain's Ready Room. You have a Priority One communication from Starfleet Command. Please acknowledge._

Pike nods to Jim, who slips over to the comm unit and depresses the button. "The Admiral is on his way."

 _Understood._

Spock catches Jim's eye as Pike gathers up his walking sticks and makes for the door. Priority One is rarely good news.

"Gather your department heads," Pike tells Spock. "No matter what this is about, I need to talk to them anyway."

"Aye, sir."

  
-:-

  
Pike comes to give them the news in person. All Jim knows is that the engines are prepped and everyone from Ops has been recalled to active duty. Gaila had shrugged apologetically and exited when the general stations call came over the comms. That leaves Nix Alpha, some of Nix Beta and several other key crews assembled in the briefing room when Pike slips through the door, straightening over his walking sticks.

"We've got a serious issue and some bad news," the Admiral begins without preamble. "Now, you’re all accustomed to dealing with classified information, so I know this won't go any further. I'm also going to ask you to keep it out of your personal logs for at least twenty four hours, just so they have time to break the story back home before anything goes on record."

There is a flurry of tense nods and murmurs from around the room. Already standing to attention, Spock somehow manages to extract a few more millimetres of height out of his frame.

Pike takes a deep breath and his eyes find Spock unerringly. "Robicon IV has been destroyed by Nero."

A gasp and groan punctuate the collective indrawn breath.

Beside Jim, Spock doesn't so much as twitch. "Survivors?" he asks.

"Approximately a third of the cross-sectional population had been evacuated to the refugee holding facility on Deneva," Pike supplies the facts from memory. "Another million or so were en route at the time of the attack and suffered heavy losses at the hands of Nero's fleet. The rest perished with the planet."

Horrified silence fills the room as the EPAS people absorb the devastating figures. Not long ago they stood on that world, breathed its air, spoke with its people, and as irritatingly stubborn as they'd been, not a single crewmember wished them anything less than survival.

"He hasn't done that in a while," Jim says, pausing to clear his throat, anything to shatter the moment. "Take out a whole planet, I mean. I thought perhaps his strategy had changed."

Pike purses his lips. "Starfleet Intelligence are analysing the most recent reports in the hope that there might be a clue, something they'd overlooked about the Robicon system that meant it benefits Nero to have the planet eliminated rather than decimated. At this stage, we're unsure as to his motivations."

"Have we been called to assist with rescue efforts in the system?" Spock asks, his voice perfectly level.

"No, I'm sorry, I almost wish that were the case," Pike says. "The Security Council have also informed me that Nero's course has altered, bringing him into close proximity with the colonial worlds on the border of the Netural Zone. The _Stalwart_ is to proceed directly to Sector gamma epsilon to provide full support to the Federation fleet as it attempts to deflect the Romulan incursion into less densely populated space."

Jim grimaces at the way Starfleet aren't even talking about making a stand anymore, just making themselves annoying enough that it's not worth Nero's while to stay on course. And they still managed to convince the Security Council the Federation was holding its own? He laughs bitterly under his breath.

"Meanwhile, our Vulcan escort, the _Tat'sar_ , has agreed to will continue our mission to Khitomer." Pike's stern gaze wanders the briefing room, as though daring any other obstacle to arise in his path. "I will accompany Sarek, the Vulcan foreign ambassador, to meet with the Klingon representatives and attempt to carve out a little stability. The treaty talks _will_ go ahead."

Spock makes no mention of his father's presence aboard the _Tat'sar_ when he speaks to the crew. "Department Heads, I expect a readiness report within the hour. Ops, use this opportunity to synchronize known hostile data points with the Starfleet Secure Server prior to warp. Section Chiefs, rally Engineering and Technical staff to ensure optimal shuttle deployment numbers upon our arrival."

Everyone snaps salutes.

"Dismissed."

Jim lingers, putting his back to Pike so he can show in his face what he can’t say in words. “Where do you want me?" he asks instead of the many other things he wants to say, like _what do you need?_

Spock's eyes are flat and expressionless. "Coordinate our withdrawal from the surface of Aspera, then report to me for further duties."

"Aye, Commander." He salutes and makes for the door.

Pike gives him a small nod as he passes, but Jim doesn't miss the fact that neither the Admiral nor Spock have moved to follow. The door slides shut, isolating him in the busy corridor.

  
-:-

  
Spock does not need to hear the order; the Admiral's eyes say he is to remain behind. It should make him uncomfortable to know this man so well, knowing that it exposes him to similar familiarity and analysis. Strangely, it does not, at least not as much as it used to. Perhaps the slow dissolution of his boundaries with Jim has softened the feeling of betrayal when his Vulcan control is less than it should be. Pike can read him like an open book and Jim is not as subtle as he believes himself to be. Spock needs no clarification of topic.

"Should I congratulate you?" Pike asks, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

"I will allow nothing to compromise the performance of my duties," he replies.

"Not a yes, definitely not a no," the Admiral sighs. "I was still holding out hope I was wrong about you two." He circles the room to deposit himself into a chair with considerable difficulty. "You know, when I assigned Kirk to your command, this wasn't the kind of close working relationship I had in mind."

Firmly, Spock does not allow himself to betray his feelings. "It came as something of a surprise to me, also."

Pike laughs then, throaty and full. "Jim can be like that."

Spock allows the silence to stretch, mentally counting the minutes until he can suggest the Admiral disembark in the interests of a timely departure from Aspera.

"Have you thought this through?" Pike asks, then shakes his head. "Look who I'm talking to; of course you have."

"You disapprove?" Spock is genuinely curious, despite his best intentions. No resolution in the world could stop him from yearning for Pike's approval, his good opinion. It should not hold such weight with him, yet it does, and not because Pike holds the power to enforce the archaic fraternization regulations.

Pike waves a dismissive hand. "As a man? No, I think sparks will fly but that both of you will probably enjoy the fireworks. As your commanding officer, I do have some reservations."

Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Do you intend to implement an intervention?"

Pike gives him a scathing look. "We both know that telling Jim Kirk not to do something is an exercise in futility. Besides, you deserve a little happiness, Spock, and I'm glad to think you might have found some."

"I ..." Spock swallows his denial, ignoring the cost to his dignity in favour of the truth. "Thank you."

"I _will_ be watching to see how this works," Pike warns, albeit a little apologetically. "There is a lot on the line right now, both for EPAS and the Federation as a whole. I can't risk having you emotionally compromised. What I can't figure out is whether your emotional state would be more questionable with Jim or without him."

"I am Vulcan," Spock says flatly. "No Vulcan in the history of either service has ever been relieved of duty for emotional compromise."

Pike leans forward, a certain tightness around his eyes. "Even Vulcans have emotions, Spock. You're also half human; it might do you some good to acknowledge that from time to time."

"I assure you, I am unlikely to forget."

After a moment, Pike leans back in his chair, the interrogation far from over, although there is a distinct lessening of intensity. "Who else knows?"

"With certainty?" Spock tilts his head in consideration, "no one. However, I believe Doctor McCoy and Lieutenant Uhura may have their suspicions."

"How do you think the crew will react?" Pike wants to know. "It's a mistake to think you can keep this a secret forever, not on a starship, not living in each other’s pockets like we do."

"I have not given the matter much thought."

"Perhaps you should," Pike says pointedly. "Mention it to Jim, too."

"When the opportunity presents itself, I shall do so."

Pike chuckles under his breath then, shaking his head. When he looks up, there is genuine amusement in his eyes. "Damn, I didn't see this one coming, not at all. Of all the people, out of everyone, _Jim Kirk?_ "

Spock stares at his boots, stares at the door, stares at his hands clasped loosely in front of him. When he finally meets the Admiral's flabbergasted gaze, he very pointedly _shrugs_.

The room is warm with Pike's laughter and Spock catalogues a pleasant buzz of rebelliousness before pushing it aside.

 

 


	27. chapter 5.3

"God _dammit!_ " Jim's curse is heartfelt as Nix takes another pounding from the _USS Defiant_. He thumbs his comm and flicks to Starfleet frequencies by rote. " _Defiant_ , watch who you're shooting at!"

The Communications department aboard the troubled vessel is harried but apologetic. Jim exchanges a glance with McCoy, who's taken a moment to look up from Spock's life sign readings.

"Who needs Romulans with friends like this!" the doctor growls, turning back to his displays.

"Shields at sixty four percent," Uhura supplies, her voice tense but professional as she makes a minor adjustment to their position.

Outside, against the glittering backdrop of a huge firefight, the reflective strips of Spock's EVA suit are barely visible in the glare. He's standing at right angles to the _Defiant's_ hull, locked into a buckled support strut as he works to restore power to their aft port escape pod bay. EPAS do not strictly provide this kind of repair work, but Jim agrees with Spock's assessment: restoring escape pod functionality to a ship of the _Defiant's_ size would result in far fewer EVA saves for EPAS Points. Around them, the rest of Alpha Prime Division are hovering at the edges of the conflict, zipping forward to collect an escape pod in a tractor beam or wrap a sling around a spinning, panicked body here and there. Jim and Uhura are monitoring the space around the nearest floundering vessel, ready to beam Spock directly back into the shuttle if the firefight moves any closer.

A blip on his HUD catches Jim's attention.

"Jim, x plus twenty, z minus two," Uhura says. "Coming in fast."

"Yeah, I'm on it."

Jim checks his line and seals as he edges out onto the runner, feeling the forcefield yield like warning hands holding him back. The potential save is flailing madly, clutching at his throat, free arm waving.

"Nix Point One going EVA," he says on the open channel, then switches to the internal frequency. "Copy that, Uhura?"

"I've got eyes on you," she confirms. "Trajectory is clear and cold."

"Understood."

Jim pushes off into space, tired quads burning in protest at what will be his fifteenth EVA save for the shift. He tries not to think of his job in terms of personal records, but he knows the most he's ever done before is twelve. He tries to blank his mind to the sound of his own breath inside the visor, pushing down the familiar lurch in his gut that haunts him regardless of experience. He will always hate the feeling nothingness around him, the expansive, chilling sensation that it's only sheer will and luck holding his molecules in place. He will always see the drill platform rising up to meet him.

The save has seen him now and is waving madly, adding additional yaw to his already complex course by accidentally activating his suit's propulsion system.

Jim hurriedly adjusts his own trajectory to compensate and taps into the guy's comm. "I've got you," he says firmly. "Try to calm down, keep your arms crossed over your chest, shut your eyes if it helps."

A strangled cough echoes in his ears. "Can't ... breathe!"

"Shit," Jim mutters with the comm down, but there's no time for any more talk because he collides awkwardly with his target. The combined momentum is off by several degrees, sending them into a complex spin which is compounded by the guy wrapping himself around Jim like a drowning man, preventing him from making any corrections.

Jim tries to free an arm, but in space there's no leverage, nothing to give him an advantage over a guy who's bigger and stronger than he is and has no obvious intention of letting him do his job. Jim can do nothing but watch the man gasp silently inside his helmet, face turning a dangerous shade of purple. Unable to reach his suit, his line or his comm, Jim has no choice but to bail out before the guy suffocates.

"Active emergency beacon," he snaps inside the visor. "Authorization Kirk, James T. Oscar Mike Golf, one one one."

 _Beacon Activated._

The whole thing would be a lot simpler if he could comm the shuttle, but short of waiting for his save to pass out, that's not an option. He does his best to prepare for the yank of the emergency transport beam, but it still rattles him to blink and feel the sudden press of gravity aboard the shuttle. McCoy is already passing a tricorder over him, mouth set in tense concentration. Jim pushes his hands aside, pops his visor and tries to get to his knees.

"Not me, him!" he shouts. "Get his helmet off!"

Together, they twist and pull, but the mechanism is jammed. Beneath the pristine surface, the officer's face is lax and pale.

"Respiratory arrest," McCoy announces.

Jim casts around wildly for something, _anything._ Patting himself down, his hand closes around his phaser. Pulling it and setting it for high stun, he clears McCoy out of the way with a desperate sweep of his arm.

"Jim, wait! You could give him brain damage!"

He fires once into the faceplate and brings the butt down viciously with no result. Cursing, he increases the resonance and frequency, discharges it twice in quick succession and this time feels the surface give with the impact of the phaser casing. Meanwhile, McCoy is cutting away at the throat of the suit with his laser scalpel, trying to let a little air circulate that way. It won't be enough, not nearly, but it's something. Jim brings the phaser down again, then again, putting his whole weight behind it. Finally, the faceplate shatters with a satisfying crunch.

"Here, let me clear it!" McCoy demands, thrusting a rib retractor into the fist-sized hole and efficiently peeling the damaged plate away.

Breathless from exertion and adrenaline, Jim leans over the transporter pad for the resuscitation kit. McCoy's hand snakes out, not even having to finish his sentence before Jim has the right hypo is in his palm. They work on the guy for twenty minutes, taking turns on the cardiac stimulator, bag-and-masking him until Bones can intubate and let the medical computer take over his oxygenation and respiration. Jim's knees are numb with pain from being pressed to the deck, his eyes burning from forgetting to blink. Eventually, though, even McCoy is forced to lean back, to pronounce the obvious.

"He's dead, Jim."

Jim swallows, shifts onto his ass to let the blood flow painfully back into his legs. "Do you think the phaser...?"

"No," McCoy shakes his head. "You were right to use it. There was no faster way to get air into him, it just took too long, is all."

He nods, but a wave of guilt rushes over him anyway and he knows he needs Bones to say the words. "Cause of death?"

His friend looks up, hard eyes saying he knows exactly what Jim is doing and why. "Irreparable brain damage as a result of acute hypoxia."

"Right," Jim makes himself nod, but the only part of that sentence he retains is the part he might be responsible for.

"Listen, Jim ..."

"Where's he from, anyway?" he interrupts, not in the mood for friendly reassurance. He leans forward to study the ship's badge sewn into the faulty EVA suit. "The _Lexington_. Huh."

"Clear the pad," Uhura calls over her shoulder. "Point Two incoming."

Jim and McCoy grab the body by its shoulders and heels, shuffling out of the way just as silver sparks appear with a familiar whine, fading to reveal Spock crouched down on his heels, elbows braced on his knees and head bowed.

For a split second when he looks up, Jim is illogically certain his face will be ashen, his lips green and his body empty of breath.

  
-:-

  
"Shields took a pounding, but Tech Support estimate restoration to at least eighty percent," Jim continues, PADD in hand as he scrolls through the standard Point One handover briefing.

"Physical damage?" Hannity wants to know, peering over his shoulder at the shuttle.

Jim leans out of her way obligingly. "Nothing major, just a little carbon scoring to the engine bay. Oh, and hey," he remembers suddenly, "watch the starboard grapple, the clip is sticking again."

She nods and claps him on the shoulder, so much harder than just a few months ago. "Get some sleep, flyboy. You look like hell."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," he smirks, smacking her on the ass good-naturedly.

"Watch it."

"I am," he assures her, widening his grin when she laughs and leaps up the runner.

A few paces away, Spock is conferring with Lioli, the Beta Divisional Point Two. He can see Harris waiting for a word when handover is complete. Jim's lip curls derisively. The XO's place is on the bridge. If they needed to talk to Spock that urgently, the command team could have paged him; otherwise it could wait until Alpha Team had a chance to shower and maybe eat something. They'd been deployed for sixteen hours and those damn protein shakes just don't cut it after the first few.

Thinking about food makes his stomach growl, so he waves off a few salutes and heads for the change rooms. He does manage to catch Spock's eye as he passes.

With feet like lead and a tired, empty feeling in his stomach, Jim strips efficiently and hangs his suit for maintenance. He'll get to that once he's eaten and maybe caught a few hours sleep. Standing under the spray, he catalogues the new bruises in his collection; the ones he can see, anyway. Twisting to catch a glimpse of his lower back, he recalls being thrown against the bench seat during maneuvering and Uhura's terse apology as she evaded Romulan cluster bombs like the pro she is. The marks his eyes keep returning to are the finger-shaped ones on his upper arms, fainter than the others, but somehow more painful. He tips his head back under the spray and closes his eyes against the memory of bulging eyes, a mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

"Damn," he mutters to the cubicle wall, and shuts off the water with unnecessary force.

He's obviously taken longer in the shower than he realised, because the flow of people in and out consists of only the dregs of Alpha shift. As Jim pulls his shirt over his head, Spock enters and crosses to his locker, deftly undoing the clasps on his gloves and collar as he moves. Jim turns to watch him peel away the EVA suit, noting the numerous repairs criss-crossing each reflective stripe, the way the material has dulled and aged over time. Cushioned by the relative privacy of the hour, he unapologetically observes Spock stripping off his dark thermals, static gripping at his sweat-damp hair. Muscles shift beneath his pale skin, darkened here and there to shades of yellow and green.

"McCoy check you over?"

Spock turns, the towel in his hand doing little to shield his body, not that he would feel something as illogical as false modesty. "I have sustained no significant injury."

"Standard debriefing at oh seven hundred?"

"Yes."

"Will I see you before then?" Jim tries to sound casual, but probably fails. His date keeping tells him that tonight will be one of the nights that Spock sleeps for a few hours, as he hasn't done so in nearly three days. Meditation serves him for only so long before his human side demands real rest, no matter how the Commander might prefer otherwise. Jim is not expecting an easy night despite his physical exhaustion, but he thinks he might just manage unconsciousness if he's not alone.

"Captain Taylor has requested an immediate meeting with me to discuss potential alterations in fleet deployment," Spock informs him, a trace of apology in his voice. "It seems Starfleet Command is considering a change of tactics tomorrow."

"Wow," he says sarcastically, "pity, because all this pussy-footing around is working so well for them. How many ships did they lose today? Three? The _Defiant_ , the _Lexington_ and the _Singapore?_ "

Spock glances around the change rooms, gauging the absence of others. "Jim," he warns, allowing his voice to soften with familiarity.

"No," he shakes his head. "There are about a million things wrong with the way this is being handled, not the least of which is the fact that we're not even trying to _stop_ Nero anymore. We're just out here directing traffic and that's hard for me to swallow."

" _We_ are not directly involved in this conflict," Spock reminds him firmly. "Fleet deployment only concerns us insofar as it affects our own operations, which are not military in nature," he emphasizes, eyes steady and measuring. "EPAS is a civilian entity, a fact that you seem to be overlooking."

"I'm not overlooking anything," Jim spits, angry now, even though it's not really with Spock. "How can I overlook today's save-to-loss ratio? It's abysmal, as low as it's been in months, and do you know why? It’s not because of the bare two days leave we had on Aspera throwing us off our game, it’s because Nero has long since figured out where to hit us hard and how to do the most damage. EPAS is naive if it thinks that one of these days that psychopath isn't going to look our way and think 'easy pickings.'" He runs a hand through his hair, his chest tight with the certainty he gets from time to time. "Pike is kidding himself, _you're_ kidding yourself."

Spock shouldn't be able to look so stern when he's stark naked, but somehow he manages it effortlessly. "If you have concerns to his effect then outline them in writing and I will ensure that the Admiral is made aware of them."

Jim sinks onto the bench in his shorts and his shirt, staring down at the uniform pants in his hands. "I'm just worried that we're still not looking at the bigger picture here, that nobody is." He raises very blue eyes to Spock's serious face. "Pretty soon it's going to be too late to do anything about it."

Spock's hand rests momentarily on his bowed head in a fleeting and uncharacteristic public display of affection. "Sleep," he suggests. "It is illogical to frustrate yourself. Tomorrow, if you are still concerned, we can discuss this at length and formulate a plan."

Jim looks up. "Can you see it, too? I still feel like I'm missing something, like there's a piece that doesn't fit. Do you know what it is?"

"I do not." His dark eyes are solemn. "However, I do not spend inordinate amounts of time reading military briefings, monitoring Fleet deployments and drawing upon public media coverage of the war for entertainment."

Jim laughs a little through his nose. "Yeah, my hobbies are awesome, you can admit it."

"I do not pretend to fully comprehend the military mind, and whatever Nero may once have been, it is obvious that he has evolved into a combatant of singular ferocity." Spock pauses, frowns as he considers his words. "I have confidence in my abilities as Divisional Commander; it is a role I have grown into over time and one that I am suited to. I come from a family of scientists and diplomats. This shapes my interpretation of events as surely as your own upbringing informs your opinions." He tilts his head. "What kind of people raised you, Jim? Were they not captains, admirals and those in positions of authority?"

"Asshole losers and drunks," he interjects under his breath, knowing that this much is a matter of public record.

"We function efficiently as Points because we both see the world with the eyes of an analyst," Spock continues calmly, "but where I see patterns, you see lines of force."

Jim has the feeling that he might just have been paid a massive compliment, even if it doesn't sound like one. "Even if I agree with you, what do I do with that?"

Spock is silent for so long that Jim begins to think he doesn't have an answer, or won't speak it out of respect for volatile human emotion.

"I believe my mother would have said, 'learn to trust your instincts,'" Spock says, surprising him. "Over time, I have found her advice most insightful."

"My instincts," Jim repeats, with the tone of a man who's pretty sure the joke's on him. "My instincts tell me nobody is going to listen to the Divisional Point One of EPAS Prime Division bitch and moan about how Nero is a second away from redefining what we mean by the word revenge."

"I will listen."

  
-:-

  
Later that night, Jim squeezes his eyes closed and tries to avoid looking at the chrono yet again. Its bluish glow will only reveal a time that is depressingly close to his oh six hundred wake-up call. His pillow is lumpy from his attempts to make it conform to the shape of his aching head, the blankets twisted and knotted around his limbs in a way that makes him want to punch the bulkhead just to see how much it hurts.

He can't turn his mind off.

He rolls onto his back and stares angrily at the ceiling. "Damn you, Spock."

Resolutely, Jim throws the covers back and calls to the computer for lights, seventy percent, as he crosses to the terminal and throws himself down behind his desk. A few flicks of his fingers and he has an empty spreadsheet open before him. He downloads the most complete history of the conflict with Nero that he has clearance for. The computer crunches through the hefty download in the time it takes him to pull a sweater on and demand a hot, black coffee from the shitty replicator.

When the data empties itself into the predefined parameters of his waiting spreadsheet, Jim is ready. Flexing his fingers, he begins an attempt to articulate the formless concern that underpins his insomnia, to give it form in the elegance of the numbers and choices that scroll across his screen.

Untouched, his coffee slowly grows cold and he curses when he notices it’s left a damp ring on the cover of one of his novels.

  
-:-

  
When the chrono reads oh five hundred, Jim is startled awake by hot hands on his cheek and shoulder.

"What?" he asks, picking himself up from his slump over the desk.

Spock is down on one knee beside him, looking almost as tired as Jim feels. "Have you worked all night?" he asks.

"Uh," Jim glances around for the time. "Most of it, I guess." He scrubs at his face with the palms of his hands. "I think I'm getting somewhere."

Spock reaches around him to save the data and shut down the terminal. "I believe I instructed you to sleep," he chastises.

"You also told me to listen to my instincts." Jim waves a hand at the screen. "My instincts said fuck around with numbers and collapse with your face mashed into a keyboard. Did Taylor really keep you this late?"

Spock's hands are firm as he pulls Jim out of the chair and herds him towards the bed, but the touches linger with affection, warm and soothing against his skin. Jim can hardly keep his eyes open, crumpling against the mattress and sighing at the rightness of it when Spock spoons behind him and pulls the covers over them both.

"Are you wearing your boots?" he asks sleepily.

"I am not."

"Okay."

Spock adjusts his position so that his face rests in the nape of Jim's neck. It's not clear, but there may be a kiss as he settles. Jim is abstractly pleased by the possibility. He reaches around and finds Spock's hand, tangling their fingers together and resting them on his hip. Spock sighs deeply.

"Computer," Jim calls. "Alteration to morning alarm. New time, oh six hundred thirty hours."

 _Acknowledged._

"That will not give you sufficient time for breakfast," Spock warns him.

"Don't care."

Okay, so that there, that's Spock _definitely_ landing a kiss just behind his ear. "Irresponsible," he whispers, just loud enough to be heard.

Jim falls deeply, dreamlessly asleep.

  
-:-

  
When the alarm sounds, Jim decides he wants to die a little.

No amount of cursing could adequately describe how crushing it is to contemplate the start of a new day, and judging by the way Spock doesn't spring irritatingly out of bed, Jim takes it to mean he's just as gutted.

When he finally forces his eyes open, it honestly hurts, but then Spock's eyelashes tickle the back of his neck. The sensation is followed by a brief rub of long fingers against his own and a tightening of the arm that holds him before it releases. Some of Jim's angst dissipates.

"Come," Spock says, then has to clear his voice of the sleep in it. "The briefing ..."

 _Red Alert. Red Alert. All active hands, report to stations. Divisional Commander to the Situation Room. Red Alert._

Spock leaps out of bed, feet in his boots before Jim's even touch the floor.

The door swishes open and Bones rushes in, friendship if not his medic's pass granting him access to Jim’s quarters at any time of shift.

"Jim! Apparently Admiral Pike is ... oh."

McCoy stops mid-sentence, tripping over his own feet a little, unexpectedly eye to eye with Spock. It's a bit like a Mexican stand-off, with both men staring at each other, unsure of what comes next. It would be funny if it wasn't so awkward.

"Admiral Pike is _what?_ " Jim wants to know, hopping a little as he pulls on his pants.

Spock steps aside so that McCoy and Kirk can see each other.

"He ... uh ... he's on the comms," the doctor falters again, then rallies. "Nero double crossed us. The _Narada_ slipped away in the firefight and has re-materialized on the edge of Vulcan space."

Spock's head snaps up. "What is his exact location?"

"I don't know!" McCoy says with exasperation. "That's all I heard on the open channel."

Without another word, Spock exits Jim's quarters at a dead run, his controlled demands of 'make way' fading quickly.

Jim emerges from pulling his outer shirt over his head to find Bones torn between shock and amusement. "All a bit domestic, isn't it?"

"Come on," he redirects, steering the doctor out of the room by his shoulder. "I want to hear what Pike has to say."

  
-:-

  
Technically it's only Beta shift and Spock who need to report, but as the Divisional Point One and a senior Medic, nobody is about to question Jim and McCoy's presence as they slip into the back of the Situation Room. Predictably, the rest of Nix Alpha follows, along with a few other senior Points and Techs who are Section Chiefs and entitled to be there.

"I'm sorry," Pike is saying, his face tight with regret. "I know this is probably very personal for all of you, but I don't have the time to break it to you gently. The _Narada_ and two other large vessels have unexpectedly withdrawn from the main firefight and emerged from warp at the following co-ordinates."

Digits scroll across the bottom of the screen, but Jim doesn't have to go on his toes to read them, because Spock's voice translates it all, cold and implacable.

"Aspera."

Pike nods. "We don't think the new facility is his goal."

"The convoy of Robii refugees," Spock infers. "They are the target?"

"Again," the Admiral looks strained. "We're not so sure. The _Tat'sar_ is equipped with some rather unique sensors," he pauses to glance off-screen at someone, "the nature of which I am not authorized to disclose. However, we have detected a spatial anomaly in the vicinity of the planet Aspera. One with an energy signature that closely matches that of Nero's weapon." Pike pauses to wet his lips. "The time has come where we can no longer afford to keep some secrets."

Spock steps forward as though offering to shoulder some of the blame.

"The scientists aboard the _Tat'sar_ believe a temporal rift has opened up in the space surrounding the planet Aspera. If he follows his previous patterns, Nero will attempt to salvage any personnel and technology that may pass through. We already have reports from a Vulcan survey vessel of bodies and shrapnel appearing in space as though out of nowhere throughout the entire planetary system."

"Origins?" Spock asks curtly.

"Unknown."

"Survivors?"

"The Vulcan High Council have dispatched their fastest ships to the system, but EPAS are uniquely qualified to assist. I am seeking approval from the Federation and Starfleet to withdraw part of Prime Division and send them to assist retrieval of those appearing through the rift, and attempt to stop Nero from attacking the inbound Robii refugee fleet."

"Have you been able to contact the Robii to apprise them of the situation?" Spock wants to know.

"Unfortunately there's so much interference from the temporal anomaly that we haven't been able to make contact." Pike looks distinctly annoyed. "We're working on it. Their best chance for survival is the incoming Vulcan fleet and any EPAS ships we can send in support."

"We're not fitted out for a firefight." Jim steps forward and the crowd parts to let him through. "Just how many ships have the Vulcans been able to send? What's their in-system ETA and defensive capability?"

Pike shifts his gaze. "If you leave within the half-hour, the _Stalwart_ will probably be first on scene, with the _Tat'sar_ about two hours behind and the Vulcans immediately after. You’ll only need to hold until we get there."

" _Ql'tomer?_ " Jim asks.

Pike smiles, a bitter twist of his lips. "I think the Klingons are more concerned by Nero cutting a swath through the Neutral Zone than forging a lasting peace with the Federation just now."

Spock signals for the Admiral's attention. "Predicted outcome if the Federation refuses to allow EPAS intervention?"

"Given that we now know the same spatial anomaly occurred shortly before Nero destroyed Robicon IV, we can expect that Aspera will be destroyed in a similar manner, along with any and all Robii refugee ships that arrive in time to witness the fireworks."

"The statistical likelihood of an unarmed EPAS Constitution class vessel successfully withstanding the _Narada_ and associated support vessels for a duration of two hours is less than zero point zero nine percent," Spock points out in an undertone.

"If we do nothing, we lose our aid camp, the planet, all intelligence from the temporal anomaly and many more members of a newly endangered species." Pike's eyes are apologetic but determined as he adds, "you of all people should understand the importance of acting to preserve as many Robii as possible, Commander."

"Yes," says Spock, tightly controlled. "Indeed."

"I need to talk to the Council and then Captain Taylor." Pike deftly and swiftly redirects the conversation. "This is just a courtesy call so you can implement whatever emergency protocols you see fit in order to get the _Stalwart_ and her crew to an appropriate level of readiness."

"Understood."

"I know this is a lot to ask of you," Pike's eyes rise and skim over Jim to take in the whole Situation Room, "all of you. So I want you to know that I'm going to give your Divisional Commander and your Captain the final choice. This mission falls well outside our purview, but we may just be these people's best hope for survival, and if that isn't what EPAS is all about, then I don't know what is. You’ve all earned the right to have your say."

Spock looks unsettled but nods sharply. "Admiral."

"Commander," he returns. "Pike out."

The connection goes dark and the room erupts into flustered conversation. Jim turns and steps into Spock's personal space a little, not wishing to be overheard. "Seems like this whole mess has spiralled out of control sooner than I was thinking."

Spock nods but does not make eye contact. "It appears you may be correct." His voice is less precise than usual, his diction somewhat muted.

Jim studies him intently, noting the fists at his sides and the tension in the muscles beneath his sleep-rumpled uniform. "This reminder of what Nero's capable of, the thing he did to Robicon IV, to ... to Vulcan," he swallows, feeling the reality settle on his own consciousness, "it affects you."

Spock turns his head slightly, face carefully blank. "It does."

Chekov and Scotty are close by and arguing about their ability to use multiple transporters to beam people directly off small ships without transponders. It's loud and complicated and has the circle closest to Spock completely absorbed, which is great, because it allows Jim to cross to the replicator and return with a glass of water, room temperature.

Spock looks down at his offering hand, seemingly perplexed, then takes it from him, carefully avoiding all contact.

Jim tries not to be offended by the omission of touch. He knows Spock is compromised and probably struggling enough without Jim's human emotions to complicate things. He blocks off part of the room with his body, giving Spock the illusion of a conversation to hide behind. He wants to say something clever about time and healing wounds, but figures he's already said more than Spock may want to reveal with that glass of water.

Instead, he sighs deeply. "So, are we taking this on, or what?"

"That is a decision for Captain Taylor." Spock still doesn't sound like himself, but the question has caused him to focus a little, to draw back from wherever it is that he goes when Nero sees fit to destroy a world so comprehensively.

"Yeah, but we both know he's going to ask you, so what are you going to say?"

Spock looks directly at him, then, and Jim can see the effort it takes to marshal himself in the moment. He blinks a few times, fingers shifting around the glass in his hand, then his brows draw down into a familiar line of concentration. "There are many variables to weigh. Making a recommendation without sufficient information would be unwise, and the Admiral is right; the crew are entitled to express their opinion.”

Jim is aware that everyone is slowly focusing on the DivCO by the fact that Spock's eyes flick over his shoulder and then back to his face. Sudden silence settles on the room. They're all waiting for something.

Jim feels a clench in his gut when he realizes they're all waiting for _him_. He's the Divisional Point One; it falls to him to speak to Spock about the crew’s position. It makes him kind of warm to realize they trust him to do that.

He turns, taking in the room's slightly questioning stares, their folded arms, their casual postures. An amazing team of people, and every one of them saying more with body language than they do with words. Everything about them proclaims their confidence in their DivCO. They’ve followed Spock into some of the worst situations imaginable, and will continue to do so as long as he needs them to. Their decision is made and not a word has been spoken. Goddamn Vulcan commanding officers.

Jim grins at them and turns back to Spock. "Well," he shrugs, "seems your kickass crew are ready to play Starfleet."

Spock hands his glass of water back to Jim and nods, once to him, and then to the room as a whole. He’s very serious and thoroughly implacable once again.

"Continue with standard deployments but instigate every emergency protocol that does not interfere with our usual operations. I shall keep you informed," he tells them seriously, then strides purposefully from the Situation Room.

People mill, consult and then get about their business. They form small groups, request breakfasts from the replicator that they can hold in one hand. They sit at tables and continue to debate transporter theory and shield maximization because they might have to put such innovative ideas to the test sooner rather than later.

Jim continues to hold Spock's water, stares down at the glass in his hands. It bears the clear impressions of Spock's fingertips. Perversely, he tries to fit his own to the marks, but the shape of them is too different.

Bones surprises him with a nudge to the ribs. "Don't think I didn't see what you did there."

Jim raises his eyebrows, blue eyes wide, his heart thundering until he realizes McCoy is referring to the glass itself, rather than his mockery of an attempt to touch Spock, which would have been a little too embarrassing.

"Robicon IV hit him kind of hard," he explains as casually as he can given that McCoy walked in on them sharing a bed bare minutes ago.

"Still," McCoy shrugs with his mouth and turns to watch the rest of the crew. "Real subtle Jim, real subtle," he finishes, leaving with a little laugh through his nose and a firm squeeze on Jim's shoulder.

And then he's wondering if McCoy saw the other thing he did, after all.

  
-:-

  
When they're summoned to the bridge less than twenty minutes later, Admiral Pike looks both serious and tired on the main viewer, each and every one of the fine lines around his eyes standing out in ten foot relief. Jim can already tell from the weight of responsibility there that Pike got the Council to agree to his request. Judging from the way Spock is standing, he can see it, too.

"I can't tell you what to do, George," Pike sighs. "You're the one out there in the thick of things, it's your ship, your command at risk. What I can tell you is that if we don't take this mission, nobody will. There just isn't another ship that can make it there in time, nobody else they will spare."

Taylor presses his lips together and glances up from his chair to capture Spock's eyes. "Commander?"

Spock regards him steadily. "We are not equipped for battle, we have little to no combat training and much remains unknown about Nero's motivations and goals," he summarizes. "Be that as it may, Prime Division stand ready to serve as you see fit, Captain."

George Taylor pushes to his feet. "Thank you, Spock."

Pike is waiting for an answer. All he gets from Taylor is a hesitant nod, but it's enough.

 

 


	28. chapter 5.4

Their entry plane to the planet Aspera is parallel to the ecliptic, the Laplacian at the very worst. Spock had argued that this would give the _Stalwart_ and her two EPAS Prime Division sister ships, the _Carpathia_ and the _Atlas_ , best possible cover from the systems other planetary bodies and numerous asteroid fields. What Nero can't get a line of sight on, he can't shoot. As much as Spock doubts his own military mind, Jim believes wholeheartedly in his worth as a tactician. Spock in the center seat of a Starfleet vessel would be a force to be reckoned with.

Many of the necessary calculations are based on hastily collected data from their previous visit. The displaced Vulcan people, as meticulous as they are, had quite rationally spent little of their space-going resources on charting little used areas of their newly acquired _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ protectorate, focusing instead on establishing trade routes and fortifying their new home world. That means that the _Stalwart's_ navcomps keep throwing out computational errors relating to the haphazard and incomplete spatial data collected during EPAS' brief survey mission on Aspera. While the ship is clearly outdated from the navcomp right through to the last rivet in her hull, not even the Fleet's flagship could have extrapolated between the sparsity of available data points. When Taylor and Harris flounder in the face of this reality, Gaila pipes up from her station in Ops and respectfully suggests they call Ensign Chekov to the bridge and have him do the calculations by hand.

This is met with blank stares, but such things have never really intimidated Gaila, so she simply flexes her burn-scarred fingers in impatience and repeats herself, with an addendum to check with the DivCO if they doubt the whiz-kid's ability to deliver their in-system trajectory accurately.

Spock is paged and shortly thereafter, Chekov arrives on the bridge, data PADD in hand and adorable accent intact. Gaila smilingly makes space for him at an Ops console and blows a kiss a their XO, who looks away hastily.

"Can you do it, baby?"she asks with confidence.

"It is wery difficult," Chekov admits. "Like playing join-the-dots, but only in the dark."

She presses a kiss to his cheek and grins at the blush it earns her. "I'd fly your course blind-folded, kiddo."

Chekov bows his head and enters into the minefield of warp navigation like a fish to water.

Gaila considers her job here done.

  
-:-

  
They make it to the Aspera System approximately fifteen minutes earlier than the other two ships, mostly thanks to Scotty's ingenious organic warp matrix. The Points, Pilots and Medics have been suited and ready for about an hour. Nero has been known to employ advanced technology to rip unsuspecting and unprepared ships out of warp without warning. Jim has the unsettling feeling that Scotty is almost wishing they'll be yanked back into sub-light speeds, simply so he can analyze the mechanics of the way it's done. From the slight frown on Spock's face, it appears he also finds the Engineer's enthusiasm a little misplaced.

They arrive unmolested in a blip of light, slowing to impulse in the shadow of Aspera's larger moon. Even strapped in and resting on the hangar deck, Nix's sensors go wild.

"There is so much stuff out there I'm having trouble differentiating life sign readings," Uhura says hurriedly. "I've got maybe one ... no, make that nearly two hundred," she growls in annoyance. "I've got between one and two hundred organic masses within our maximum deployment sphere," she amends, but the tone of her voice tells everyone she's pissed about the lack of accuracy.

"Highest concentration?" Spock wants to know.

"The surface of the planet," Uhura replies, fingers skating over the sensor grids, little lines of light blossoming in their wake. "I can't break through the _Narada's_ jamming to ascertain if the foreign matter is alive or dead."

"But they're sentient readings?" Jim butts in.

"Look, I _think_ so," she twists against her harness, angular face intent and angry, "they're definitely biological, but nothing's certain."

Spock clearly respects Uhura's instincts, because he gives the all clear for deployment and Nix is one of the first shuttles propelled into the black.

Spock leans forward on the narrow bench seat to fit his surface boots. They're not standard EPAS Point wear, they're the lightweight, thick-treaded, all-terrain versions. He crosses one ankle lithely over each knee to lace them and doesn't once stop talking into his comm. Jim finishes tightening his own even as Uhura words them up on their ETA, the craft spiralling deceptively casually towards the ionosphere of the planet below.

Many clicks away in their y-plane, but still closer than comfortable, small Romulan attack craft are blinking in the sunlight.

" _Stalwart, Stalwart_ ," Uhura comms instantly. "Request immediate cover fire, copy."

 _Reading you Nix Alpha, we've got your back._

Uhura nods at the confidence in Gaila's voice. She's a crack shot. On cue, the Romulan crafts disintegrate above them, escape pods and shrapnel hammering their shields and hurtling haphazardly towards Aspera's surface, blinking out sight in the ecliptic.

Still monitoring all channels as his immediate duties to the Division, Spock twists in his harness to address his crew just as the outer hull-plating begins to hiss and pop with friction.

"Shuttles are deployed in classic grid formation for surface retrieval. ED996 has been allocated the summit of one of the higher peaks. The descent of the Romulan energy weapon within the planet's atmosphere has resulted in an unpredictable and severe weather system. There is the potential for subzero conditions, winds in excess of one hundred kilometers an hour and falling trees. According to confirmation from Ops sensor sweeps, we can expect approximately one hundred and seventy survivors scattered throughout the northern and eastern arms of this mountain range." Spock pauses for emphasis. "We know from Nero's previous attempts to gain technology and hostages that he will doubtless have soldiers on the planet's surface."

McCoy's bushy eyebrows descend and through the narrow gap that leads to the cockpit, Jim can see Uhura's fingers blanch on the controls. Academically, they all know that this isn't just a simple search and rescue operation, they know that Nero wants any and all materiel that slips between worlds with almost manic intensity. That means enemy troops, and this time there are no Fleet personnel standing in the way.

"Standard EPAS protocols apply," Spock reminds them, his voice particularly firm. "We will not ignore any request for assistance."

"Sure," McCoy nods, still frowning, "but tell me we're prioritizing? If Nero wants his goons back, he can damn well beam them out himself!"

Spock's face is utterly emotionless. "Surface conditions are not conducive to differentiating between species via tricorder readings. We have no political affiliation. We will simply do our duty to the best of our ability."

"Dammit, Spock, who's side are you on? I know what the rule book says, but out here with Nero doing his best to kill us, it's pretty clear where our loyalties lie!"

"Indeed," says the Commander calmly. "It lies with those stranded on the planet's surface enduring inhospitable conditions."

"Inhospitable my ass!" McCoy hisses, characteristically goaded by Spock's attitude. "We're just supposed to save those bastards too? Don't you remember how this got started?"

"It 'got started' with the destruction of the _USS Kelvin_ approximately twenty six years ago, Doctor."

"I'm not talking about the whole goddamn war!" The doctor flings an arm in a wide arc. "Sorry Jim," he interjects, pausing for a pained look in his direction in honor of his father, "but I'm talking about the here and now, about our quiet little aid camp that's going to get blown all to hell because of Nero's obsession with alternate realities!"

There's a pause while Uhura wrestles with the flaps as they hit the perimeter of the weather. The gap in the conversation leaves all three of them in the back waiting for someone else to speak, to acknowledge that the top secret nature of Nero’s presence in their lives isn’t quite so secret. Predictably, it's Jim who breaks the quiet.

"You're not counting the potential gain to Starfleet Intelligence if some of Nero's troops get mixed up in our saves. Not all Romulans are the enemy. What about the poor bastards who fall through space? For all we know, where they come from, Romulus has been part of the Federation since before you were born. I hear what you're saying, Bones, but I know you," he coaxes, "you don't seriously want our Points to just leave people to die."

"Don't I?" McCoy is in fine fettle, his face flushed with anger and the desperation they've all been feeling since hearing the news of Robicon IV's destruction. "Seems to me that with Nero knocking on our front door, it's time for us to get a little choosy about who we're patching up and sending back out there into the fight."

"Despite our current mission, we are not a military organization, Doctor, and you are not in command of this fleet," Spock reminds him, clear reprimand in his tone.

"Well, that much is obvious," Bones snarls, "or we wouldn't be wasting our resources on saving them instead of saving human lives!"

In the deadly silence that follows that remark, Jim has a sick feeling. He desperately wants to disengage from the conversation, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from Spock's face. McCoy's too busy looking thoroughly embarrassed to notice, but there's a tightness around their DivCO's mouth and a sudden stiffness to his posture that speaks of considerable control.

"Spock, I ..." McCoy chokes.

"Silence."

"You know that's not what I meant."

Spock's voice is ice cold. "Not another word, Doctor."

Bones blanches and scooches back in his seat a little. Jim's heart is pounding in his throat, because there's no way Bones actually said that. Has it got so bad that even the most compassionate of men, the most dedicated to their cause, could draw a line between humanity and the rest of the universe? Had life aboard the _Stalwart_ degenerated so finely into us and them?

McCoy decides to be obedient and Spock just sits there being jostled in his harness, staring straight ahead as though his dark eyes can bore holes in the bulkhead. This leaves Jim to battle ugly thoughts amongst the pits and troughs of turbulence. He's not sure how, but he's going to find a way to patch things up between those two. He's still looking for an opening when Uhura vectors in their final approach and the air currents turn from buffeting to downright violent.

"Commander, I don't think I can set us down," she says tightly. "Not without risking some serious wind shear."

"Then hold your position, Lieutenant," Spock acknowledges. "We will use rappels."

"Copy."

"Spock," Jim says softly, forestalling him as his hand reaches for the door control, moments away from the blinding rain and howling wind. The Commander tilts his head in inquiry, his eyes blank, his expression more closed than ever.

"I don't think Bones meant that like it sounded." He eyes Spock earnestly, hoping for some glimmer of understanding, some suggestion that he knows McCoy is better than that, better than all this shit they're living. They're about to leap blindly out of an aircraft that's being pursued by the Federation's most violent enemy. Post-mission reconciliation just may not be an option.

"The drop is approximately thirty meters and the prevailing wind is from the south," Spock informs him as though he hasn't spoken. "Ensure you allow sufficient outward swing to clear the port runner."

Feeling no better, Jim nods. "Understood."

Spock palms the door control and the hinges groan as the wind grips the metal arc like a wing and tries to tip them over into a spiral. Uhura swears mightily and Nix rocks back to the level.

"Make it quick, you guys!"

Spock clips in and launches himself into an outward arc in one fluid movement, disappearing into the maelstrom like a leaf on the wind. Jim grips the handhold and settles the goggles over his eyes. Two seconds later, Spock's voice crackles to life in his hood, giving the all clear. Jim tests his line, squares his shoulders, and falls into darkness and rain.

  
-:-

  
"This is bullshit!" Jim exclaims some time later, using the back of one hand to wipe some of the water from his goggles. "We can't see two feet in front of our faces, let alone track survivors in this."

"Faint life signs approximately two hundred meters to the north," Spock replies, his face silhouetted in the rain sparkles created by his hood lamp. "I believe we will be required to scale a considerable ..."

 _Commander Spock, this is echo delta five nine three, over._

Spock pauses and thumbs his comm. "This is Spock."

 _Sir, Lieutenant Sanders here, we're encountering significant issues evacuating some of the survivors, over._

"Clarify."

 _It's the temperature, sir. We're up here on the western spine and it's the tricorders say it's about two seventy one Kelvin. It's bad enough for us, sir, but there are some Vulcan civilians here that just aren't coping and some of Nero's soldiers we've captured. We can't beam them out thanks to the jamming and their body temperature was already dangerously low when we found them. The construction crew ... well, let's just say they haven't exactly pooled their resources._

Spock lets his hand fall from his hood. Jim watches as his lips part slightly, his hotter-than-human breath billowing in the pool of light he creates. It's no secret that Romulans are a Vulcanoid race; Spock will understand better than anybody just how compromising the extreme cold and wind-chill is becoming on desert-bred physiology.

After a few seconds, Spock thumbs his comm again decisively. "Sanders, stand by." He takes two steps towards Jim, his face set in concentration, his expressionlessness shattered by the effort to think in the driving storm. Even here, sheltered by a ledge in the lee of the mountain, each of them is buffeted and grabbed as if by cold hands.

"What are you thinking?" Jim asks, recognising the beginnings of a plan in his eyes.

"Have the proposed orbital weather platforms been deployed?"

"Deployed, yes," Jim confirms, "but not activated, and they're only designed to stabilize upper atmospheric conditions directly over the aid camp. They're no match for the disturbances being created by the drill platform."

"Can you interface with them?" Spock wants to know, ignoring the objections.

Jim's hands go to the PADD in his thigh pocket. "Well, yeah, theoretically it's possible." He pulls it out into the rain, the firm, spongy texture of the protective covering easy to hold even with slippery gloves. "There are going to be issues with security, though. They make these things pretty hard to hack, especially on a cold boot routine. What are we trying to do?"

"Approximate duration of this storm center," Spock snaps. "Predicted wind direction in fifteen minute intervals." He's shouting over the storm, already readying his harness for the gruelling climb ahead of them.

Jim hunkers down, putting his back to the worst of it and runs the preliminary shell he'll use to initiate the satellites. "Don't ask for much, do you?"

"If ED593's saves have been exposed to these temperatures for a prolonged period of time without appropriate attire or shelter, then it is possible that we have very little time to extract useful information before they become irrevocably compromised."

Jim looks up, squinting against Spock's lamp. "You mean it will kill them."

"As I am unsure of their current status, it is unwise to speculate."

Spock drives the first spike into the cliff face, anchoring their line. Jim's fingers are flying over the screen, but he spares a worried glance for the slight stiffness in the Commander's movements. He has thermals and an EVA suit to shield him, but Jim's human and it's _fucking_ cold. The longer they stand around here waiting for an uplink to the weather platforms, the more Spock's ability to climb safely will be affected.

A spectacular gust of wind drives the rain in an arc, hammering up under Jim's crouch to blast water into his face. His goggles protect his eyes, but he's left coughing and spluttering by the sheer force of it. Luckily, the PADD flashes green with the news they have full access to climatic controls. Chekov would be proud.

"We're in business!" he crows, glancing up and smiling through numb lips.

The climbing rope whips like an angry snake around its sole anchor point and Spock is nowhere to be seen.

  
-:-

  
Above Aspera's surface, the _Stalwart_ slingshots around the secondary moon to avoid incoming fire from a Romulan aggressor. Taylor hangs grimly to the arms of the captain's chair, his eyes determined even though his lips tremble as the old ship barely makes the turn in time. Sparkling prisms of green brush the aft shields and sail into the black to detonate harmlessly against the system's inner asteroid field.

Gaila gently looses the breath she's been holding and forces herself back into the flow of her own work. Along with sixteen other Ops techs strewn around the semi-circle that makes up Bridge Tactical, she's not only keeping an eye out for her own personal crew, ED996, but also monitoring incoming ordinance and the position of every other vessel that crosses her designated flight area. When a ship blips out of her zone, she automatically forwards it to the right Ops tech with a flick of her finger across the touch screen.

"Nix, your Ops here. Guard your six, incoming by two, your advantage in atmo."

 _Copy that. Going low._ Uhura's voice is tense but steady as she flips the rescue shuttle into a steep dive and re-enters Aspera's exosphere based on Gaila's advice.

The Romulan fighters follow as low as the F-range before breaking off to address easier pickings. Gaila relaxes for a split second before Jim Kirk's frequency demands her attention.

 _Ops, this is Kirk. Gaila, Spock just fucking disappeared. I need his twenty, over._

Her stomach drops but she hurries to comply, sweeping their assigned search area and then doing it again when it comes up blank the first time. Frustrated and panicked, she widens the scan, cursing under her breath as the electrical storms and distortion from Nero's jamming makes the task practically impossible.

 _Gaila, his twenty!_

She takes a split second to force herself to breathe before replying. "I can't find him, Jim. What the hell happened?"

There's silence on the other end of the line, then a burst of wind and rain as Jim activates the comm, says nothing and then deactivates it again.

"Nix Point One, sitrep, over," she demands, knowing they're losing precious seconds to assess the situation.

 _I'm transmitting my exact co-ordinates now,_ Jim says tensely. _I only looked away a split second and he was gone. It must have been a transporter; if he'd been blown off the cliff we'd still be able to read his signal. He must be out of range or somewhere shielded._

"You're saying Nero beamed him out?" Gaila jams a finger into her earpiece as though she couldn't possibly have heard correctly. "Jim, it's a nightmare out there, locking onto a specific person without knowing their transponder frequency is impossible, especially with Nero playing hide-and-seek with us."

 _Future tech,_ Jim spits, and she can tell even across the shitty line that he's furious. _Also, the Commander has a pretty distinctive biosign reading, wouldn't you agree?_

Gaila devotes half her attention to Jim's theory and the other half to ensuring Navigation have the most up to date telemetry on the _Narada_ which is moving to engage the _Stalwart_ again when they emerge from their lunar orbit. "Okay, so let's say Nero's got Spock," she allows, "you're now the DivCO, what do we do?"

 _We get him the hell back._

"Seconded, but how?"

 _Make a list of anything that was in the area with sufficient shielding to interfere with an EPAS transponder at the time Spock disappeared, then deliver it to my PADD._

"Working on it."

  
-:-

  
Jim feels the rope bite deeper into his right arm as he inches over the edge of the cliff. The wind buffets him, grabbing at him with murderous hands, but he resolutely leans out into the darkness, fighting down his fear of heights to play the scanner one more time over the deadly drop below. It bleeps at him in the negative. No life signs. Definitely no non-native biological signs. Wherever Spock is, he's not smashed dead on the rocks below. The thought should be cheerier than it is, but he's very much aware that the alternative might be even less pleasant. Nero isn't famous for his hospitality, plus he has a special dislike reserved for Vulcans, one in particular.

His PADD vibrates in its holster, alerting him that Gaila has once again compiled data in record time.

Using the rope to guide him to safety, Jim scans the alarmingly long list with rising panic until one entry leaps out at him. He thumbs the comm and selects the _Stalwart_ command channel first.

"This is Div Point One for Captain Taylor, priority one, over."

 _Acknowledged, Lieutenant Kirk. Patching you through._

A brief pause and then Taylor's voice. _Kirk, what do you want?_

"Sir, they've taken Spock. Prime Division is encountering localized aggression from Nero's ground troops but we're holding our own for now. Request permission to retrieve Commander Spock and disable the drill platform, over.”

 _If you can deliver on that, son, you go right ahead,_ Taylor replies instantly. _With that platform out of action, we might be able to raise the incoming Robii fleet and advise them of the situation before they get stuck in the middle of this._

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Kirk, out."

Jim has never been more grateful in his life for a quick decision from Taylor. He flips to Nix's channel immediately. "Kirk to Uhura, one to beam out."

 _Where's Spock?_ Is her instant demand.

"Don't worry," he grins fiercely. "He’s way ahead of us."

  
-:-

  
Spock turns his stagger into a shoulder roll as he unexpectedly rematerializes. His instincts serve him well, allowing him to duck two stun bolts before the third clips him in the arm, numbing half his body and sending him toppling to the deck. Sweeping aside the knot of primal fear at being incapacitated, he uses brute strength to flip onto his back one-armed. Whatever is coming next, he wants to stare it in the face.

A tattooed Romulan looms over him with a kind of fascinated sneer. " _Ta-krenn! Hnafirh'au-d?_ "

Another soldier steps forward, stun pistol still warm in his hand from gunning Spock down. " _Rha,_ " he grins. " _Hnafirh'rau te yyaio._ "

Spock glances around the small transporter bay and realizes where he is. He feels the absence of the chilling wind as a pseudo warmth on his face even as the knowledge that he will most likely not survive this encounter envelops him. Rainwater drips down from his hood, forming rivulets across his goggles.

 _Yes,_ the second Romulan, the superior, had said. _Let me have a look at the dead one._

  
-:-

  
"What's the situation?" Jim demands, feeling like urgency has forced him to speak before his molecules are even properly reassembled.

"Ridiculous!" McCoy growls. "I just had a Klingon in my medbay, bleating at me in _perfect_ Standard about whether or not we'd saved her _human_ husband! Just what the hell kind of universe are these people coming from?"

"Sounds like a better one than ours," Jim grits out, catching himself on the bulkhead to lean into the cockpit. "Uhura, coordinate what cover we can from the _Stalwart's_ phaser banks and take us in hard."

"Destination?" she asks steadily, already comming through Jim's request.

Jim stares out the viewport at the tiny twinkle on the planetary horizon. "There," he says, pointing. "The orbital weather satellite control platform. That's where they've taken Spock."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me," he grins, licking his lips, "he's there."

"Jim Kirk, I am _not_ taking this shuttle and everyone aboard on some wild goose chase backed by a hunch, so damn well _tell_ me how ..."

"Moments before he was taken we were working on hacking the satellites. Spock had a plan, I don't know what it was, but they must have intercepted my transmission. I didn't have time to encrypt it. Nero's not an idiot, he has extensive files on key Federation personnel, that much we know from what little intelligence we have on his operation. He knows who Spock is, what he's capable of, better than anyone. If I were Nero, I wouldn't want a brilliant Vulcan launching a counter offensive on my little sneak attack, would you?" He stops to breathe, hands clenched at his sides. Some of it's a cover but Uhura doesn't have sufficient clearance for the truth and the basis of his assumption is unaffected.

"Tenuous at best," she challenges. "We haven't got the resources to waste with shadows and guesswork. If Nero took Spock, why wouldn't he be on the _Narada?_ It's more secure, it's more defensible, and if he's such a valuable prisoner, wouldn't Nero want to question him personally?"

Jim grits his teeth in frustration, feeling the ache in his jaw. "If you were an alien lunatic genius, would you want Spock at the beating heart of your operation or somewhere more peripheral where he could do less damage?"

"He's one Vulcan, against who knows how many Romulan foot soldiers. How dangerous can he be?" Uhura barely finishes the question before her expression shifts to one of reluctant admission. "Okay, so Nero doesn't trust him, doesn't trust his own soldiers to contain him. We know Spock, we know what he's capable of, what makes you think Nero understands the lengths he'd go to in order to end this war?"

Jim's eyes are hard and very blue as he turns Uhura around by the shoulder to face her controls again. Fuck the Security Council and fuck Uhura's clearance; the time of plausible denial is long gone.

"Nero knows Spock, too."

"What?" she exclaims, but she's already plotting a course and laying it in. "Since when?"

"Since a universe ago."

"Jim, what the hell?"

"Shut up and fly!" he shouts, but instantly contrite, he grips her shoulder in apology. "We don't know how much time we have."

"He better be there," she mutters, somewhat mollified.

"He is," Jim whispers. "I know it."

Moments pass where the only sounds in the shuttle are the constant prattle of DivCO updates in Jim's comm and McCoy's tense muttering. Then Jim has an epiphany.

"I know what Spock was planning!" he crows. "God _damn_ it, he's brilliant!"

"Plan? What plan?" Bones growls impatiently.

"Uhura," Jim says excitedly, ignoring the doctor in his haste to set things in motion. "Get Chekov to the _Stalwart's_ auxiliary transporter room along with an armed Security escort, as many as Taylor will spare."

"The brawn I understand," she nods. "But Pavel?"

"I need his wery impressive brain," Jim grins, waggling his eyebrows.

  
-:-

  
The temperature differential creates a billow of steam and the docking hatch hits the wall with a clang. Jim is first through the porthole, as befits a Point, with Security and Uhura close behind. McCoy hangs in the rear, weighed down by his medkit and disadvantaged in the hypothetical firefight Jim is really hoping to avoid.

"Secure us a path to the bridge," he commands, gesturing at their armed guard. "Scan for Spock's biosigns as you go and forward your findings to me. Defend yourselves but don't start anything. The longer they don't know we're here, the greater our chance of success."

The Security troops salute crisply and quickly advance into the main corridor, their phasers held low but the safeties off.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Chekov salutes him with one finger as he materializes inside the docking bay. "You mind telling me what we're doing?"

Jim claps him on the shoulder and steps out into the installation proper. "We're going to get Spock back and then we're going to see which way the wind is blowing."

"You are not as funny as you think you are," Chekov informs him, but pulls his phaser and follows seamlessly, Uhura and Bones bringing up the rear.

The weather control platform is dimly lit, still running on minimal power. As yet, Jim still can't be one hundred percent sure he's guessed correctly, but something tells him he has and that Spock is here somewhere, his signal dampened by the heavy duty electromagnetic shielding designed to protect the satellite's delicate innards. It's more than a hunch but less than a certainty and he really would have hoped for something more concrete. He's the one leading them all into Nero's figurative clutches, regardless of the loyalty they all feel for their DivCO. He imagines what Spock will say when they find him, the disapproval in response to Jim's reallocation of essential resources to save one life instead of the many on the planet below. How to explain that it was no choice at all? That abandoning Spock to Nero was an impossibility, both for him and Nix's crew?

Resolutely, Jim pushes his doubts aside, all of them. Spock is here, somewhere, and it's up to them to find him before Nero extracts his pound of flesh.

  
-:-

  
"Divisional Commander Spock."

The deep gravel of that voice is laced with humor and hatred, both. It gives Spock the strength he needs to lift his head, one side of his face still numb from the stun blast. The visage that greets him on the viewer is hauntingly familiar. Prime's memories flood his visual cortex, overlaying many perspectives and incarnations of that face.

"Nero," he names him, the words somewhat distorted by his left-sided weakness.

The Romulan commander turns an accusatory stare on his underlings. "What have you done to him? I told you to acquire him in pristine condition!"

Spock's senior captor makes a subservient gesture. "He was difficult to subdue, my lord."

"Yes," Nero hisses. "He would be."

"What do you want with me?" Spock manages, trying to lessen the degree he is leaning on the junior Romulan, his mind roiling with the fear, adrenaline and violence of the other's touch.

"With you?" Nero sounds surprised. "Why, nothing, my treacherous friend." He bares his teeth in a vicious parody of a smile. "My revenge is already exacted upon your tainted soul. The loss of your planet is sufficient recompense for your own sins, if not for the sins of the greater Federation whole."

Spock feels a wave of grief wash over him, normal control impaired by the circumstances and the stun blast. The only thing that saves him, that reforms him, is the tiny kernel of insight gifted to him by his counterpart.

"You yearn to lay the blame for the destruction of Vulcan at my feet, but wishing will not make it so," he says calmly. "You are guilty of a greater crime than my counterpart, for the deaths you cause are fuelled by rage and intent, each and every one of them a blight of revenge upon your katra that you will never erase." He pauses for breath. "Not if you search your whole life, and certainly not by punishing me."

Nero laughs dismissively, his whole face filled with derision except for his eyes which burn with white-hot anger. "How poetic, and if I may say so, how uncharacteristically dramatic, Spock. You surprise me." He claps condescendingly as one might at a live performance. "How human you are in this universe, how governed by your feelings and your prejudice."

Spock remains silent and watchful. Nero has yet to reveal his purpose. Whatever it may be, he doubts it is merely their conversation. Mad he may be, and unpredictable, but Spock has never believed him careless or casual. There is a purpose to his abduction, one greater than the balm to Nero's vanity. Additionally, every second they talk is a moment longer for Spock to evaluate the possibility of escape, and another chance for EPAS to hold fast and protect Aspera and the incoming Robii fleet.

"I am not ashamed of my humanity," he returns, pleased when it elicits an emotional response from the Romulan, even if it is not the one he expects.

Nero throws his head back and laughs, deep and rich in a way that speaks more of hatred than humour. "You lie well for a Vulcan."

"Was that a compliment?"

"It is an unusual skill to have cultivated," Nero continues, the smile still playing along his tattooed lips. "I wonder what motivated you? Certainly the Spock I knew only told me one lie." His face contorts in remembered grief and he brings a fist down on something hard out of the camera's line of sight. "It was the day he promised to save Romulus and instead let us die in flames!"

"He fully intended to save your planet."

"How could you possibly know that?" Nero demands wildly, then pauses, eyes narrowing. "He is here? In this world?"

Spock cannot suppress the sudden clench of his jaw. Defending Prime was a miscalculation and one that may cost him and his counterpart most dearly. Silence is his only defense.

Nero leans forward, his scarred face filling up the small viewscreen. "Tell me where he is and I will spare your life."

The senior Romulan pulls his weapon and presses it hard into Spock's temple.

"I do not know my counterpart's current location," he says, because it is true, and also, he may be Vulcan but instinct demands he eke out every last possible second of his life.

"Lies!" Nero roars and the weapon is ground more firmly into Spock's skull. "Tell me the truth and your death will be painless!"

Seconds tick away and Spock can see no way out. The satellite's shielding will conceal his location, in his weakened state he is no match for Romulan strength, lies serve him poorly but he cannot give an honest answer for fear of jeopardising the incoming Vulcan fleet and _Tat'sar_ support. As hopeless as it is, there is only one avenue open to him.

So it is that Spock straightens as much as he is able. "I would not help you with the last breath in my body," he proclaims, then lashes out viciously with the side of his palm and breaks the senior guard's neck with a satisfying crack. The weapon discharges and his head fills with excruciating heat. The last sound to reach his ears is Nero's manic laughter.

  
-:-

  
Spurred into action by the sound of weapons fire, Jim bursts into the communications room to find Spock flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, the floor splashed with copious amounts of green blood. One wall of the room contains a smoking ruin where a viewscreen once stood.

"Spock!" The sound is torn from his throat, raw and terrified.

Jim's headlong sprint continues across the deck. He has his phaser in hand, eyes flicking left and right, up and down, but centring always on the three bodies. The other two are Romulan, that much is evident from the extensive tattooing. One is missing most of his face and the other lies on the deck with his neck at an impossible angle. Bones and Chekov filter into the room behind him, but it hardly registers because Jim has just spotted the shallow rise and fall of Spock's chest.

His knees hit the deck hard enough to bruise, but it gets him to Spock's side a fraction faster, so it's worth it. The steady thrum of a Vulcan heartbeat is easily perceptible through the thin EVA suit. Jim's other hand is patting him down, searching for the source of all the blood. It's sticky and cloying, gluing his fingers together like honey and it smells terrifying and fecund, like water from an old kettle.

"I am not wounded" Spock says, blinking his way back to consciousness, attempting to push upright. "Jim, the blood is not mine."

"Some of it damn well is!" He glances over his shoulder, face set, eyes burning. "Bones!"

Spock raises a hand to his face and is surprised to see his glove come away warm and green. He has a flash of recollection, of the split second whine of a weapon about to discharge at extremely close range. He remembers the burn and the flash, blinding light ...

"Easy," Jim advises, clutching at him as he lunges up.

"Dammit Jim, hold him still!" Bones growls, adjusting his tricorder with angry flicks of his fingers.

Jim doesn't have much to do; Spock's body is tense, wire taut but obedient. Chekov is ostensibly covering the door with Uhura, but he keeps turning his head, glancing towards the injured Commander with wide, fearful eyes. To him, it must be as though the impossible has happened. The paleness of his cheeks and the utter disbelief make it clear that his world has been flung from its axis. Jim understands; Spock looks like a reanimated corpse he's covered in that much gore, which has happened before, but normally it's not green. Spock cannot be fatally wounded, it is an unwritten law amongst Prime Division.

"Point blank energy burn," McCoy notes under his breath, the adds almost to himself, "a fraction to the right and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Will he be okay?"

McCoy pulls a face as he sets to work with a dermal knitter. "There are documented synaptic disturbances associated with near-misses like these, but in reality," he leans back on his haunches and the light dies from his instruments, "most of it will be shock."

"Doctor, Lieutenant, may I remind you that I am present and conscious?" Spock snaps, tightly controlled.

"Why you ungrateful, arrogant ..." McCoy mutters, pushing to his feet and holstering his equipment with more force than necessary. "Come on, kid," he growls at Chekov, "best learn when you're not wanted." He turns to Jim, his expression still torn between concern and irritation. "Coming or what?"

Stiffly, Spock pulls out of Kirk's hold, moving himself up onto one elbow. "I take it you have ascertained the purpose of gaining control of the weather platform and associated satellites?"  
Jim nods, but all he says is, "we need to get you out of here, back to the ship."

Spock frowns but the effect is somewhat ruined by the paleness of his face and the blood still oozing slightly from McCoy's ten second patch up. "Lieutenant Kirk, you must complete the mission. I will stay here and guard the approach."

Jim stares down into those dark eyes, and feels the shaky burn as the adrenaline starts to leave him. Spock's gaze is insistent, almost pleading. It seems this is about more than the people on the station. It could be that this is about boundaries, about drawing a line between what lies unacknowledged between them and the people they have to lead; their mutual disguise. He knows what Spock wants him to do, but for the first time in a long time, Jim is planning to fail a test.

He thumbs his comm and holds Spock's eyes as he speaks into it. "All points this is Lieutenant Kirk. Citing regulation one-oh-one, I'm retaining Divisional Command, over."

A wave of acknowledgement pours over the frequency, and to the Division's credit, not one of them wastes time or breaks protocol to ask if Spock is okay. Regulation one-oh-one means the Commander is either injured, still absent or dead. Momentarily Spock looks really pissed. Before he can say anything, Jim grabs him by the elbow and puts all of his strength into hauling that dense Vulcan body to its feet.

"If you're well enough to contradict me, you're well enough to come with us," he says, taking one long arm and looping it over his shoulders when Spock sways. "We still might need you when it comes to programming the weather, which is a lot more important than the _fucking approach_ and the Romulans that might take advantage of it."

For a moment, it looks like Spock is going to protest both the shift in command, the plan and the thought of using Kirk as a crutch, but whatever he sees in Jim's face, it's enough. He nods, once, then they both raise their heads to the other two.

"Lead on, McDuff," Jim grins.

McCoy rolls his eyes. "Hell of a time to get literary."

Within a few minutes, it's evident that the security crew has forged far ahead of them, even in the small amount of time it took to find Spock and sort out their priorities. It's a damn good thing, too, because Jim is inundated by the constant comm chatter of being a Divisional Commander. Now that the official change of command is out, nothing is getting filtered through Ops anymore and it's doing his head in. Every few steps there's a question that needs answering, a goal that needs re-evaluating. There are status reports, casualty reports, fleet orientation reports. Frankly, Jim is expecting that any minute someone will give him an update about the availability of public toilets. All he wants to do is take a goddamn moment to revel in the feel of Spock's warmth against his side, his weight across his shoulders, but it's a relief he's denied.

The Nix team pause in the shelter of a doorway while Chekov does a quick reconnaissance. Jim takes the opportunity to glance at Spock, his face twisted in assessment. "How are you doing? Some nerve damage? Walking doesn't seem easy."

When he turns, Spock's face is paler than before, his pupils over-dilated even in the bright light. "I admit that it requires significant concentration."

"Hey, you look like shit," Jim observes casually.

"Your observation is inane and insulting."

Jim deliberates for a second, because Spock really does look bad, but he knows even Chekov might need a hand with what they're about to attempt. Oh, he could code it himself if he had all the time in the world, but there are still people on Aspera's surface and the memory of the conditions down there is fresh in his memory. People dying down there, the Robii refugees are en route and the Vulcan support fleet is still at least twenty minutes away. They need help _now_.

"Okay, I'll haul your ass as far as the bridge, but then we're all getting out of here."

Spock raises one quizzical eyebrow, perfectly disdainful even if it _is_ crusted in blood. "What would be the point in remaining once our mission is complete?"

"Don't sass me," Jim grunts, staggering around another corner under half Spock's weight.

McCoy's head appears around the bend, followed by an exasperated gesture indicating they should hurry up. "Stop gossiping and keep moving! This platform is crawling with Romulans."

Jim takes one step and Spock buckles beside him, pulling him to his knees.

"Ah, Bones? A little help?"

McCoy swears and puts his shoulder to Spock's other armpit. With significant effort and some assistance from the Commander, all three regain their feet.

"Everloving Christ!" the doctor pants. "Spock, your Vulcan hide weighs a ton!"

"Shut up and keep walking," Jim gasps, "we're nearly there."

"This is a bad idea. He's in no fit state to be doing much of anything, let alone hacking orbital platforms."

Spock glares.

"Yeah, well did you want to leave him in the corridor clutching a phaser for the Romulans to find?" Jim groans as they make the bridge and dump Spock into the science seat.

Immediately, Kirk palms his phaser and takes cover behind the consoles with Uhura, both of them guarding the door. Jim presses his finger against the earpiece, jamming it further into his skull to differentiate the different channels. "There are still isolated pockets of resistance," he informs the remaining two Security personnel positioned in the corridor. "Stay sharp, everyone," he releases the comm and turns to speak over his shoulder. "Bones, see what you can do to help Spock with the computers."

"Sure thing," Bones drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes, but he makes his way over to the science station and proceeds to look studiously over Spock's shoulder.

Then there's nothing but the blinding rattle of Spock and Chekov's fingers across the controls. It sounds like rain falling on a tin roof. There are only occasional pauses where his body catches up to his brain and he has to take a moment to think and re-evaluate. McCoy's eyes seek out Jim's across the room and it's a tacit acknowledgement of the doctor's real agenda. _Keep an eye on him_ , Jim tries to say with nothing more than a firm set to his lips and a slight furrow between his brows.

Bones turns his back on the others and surreptitiously opens his tricorder. Waving it at Spock earns him an impatient exhalation from the patient, but those dark eyes never waver from the screen. The readings are addled, but not life threatening. He's going to have a hell of a headache and a few of his motor neurons are fried, but it doesn't seem to be affecting his fingers or his recall. McCoy snaps the tricorder shut and falls back into watching the lines of code slot into place neatly, flashing green and then melting aside to present the next roadblock. He knows Jim will interpret that correctly in place of a spoken diagnosis.

There's the sound of phaser fire nearby. Jim flinches and grips his weapon more tightly. "DivCO to Security, over?"

Silence rolls over the comms.

"DivCO to Security away team, do you copy?"

Nothing but more silence and then the distant tramp of more than two sets of boots returning from the point position.

"Guys?" Jim calls, not turning to look at them. "How much longer?"

"Approximately one point two minutes remaining," Spock says calmly.

"Okay," Jim acknowledges as the sounds draw close enough that the flashes of covering fire become visible in the dim emergency lighting.

Suddenly the door beside Chekov takes a hit and he tumbles from his console to return fire, jamming his shoulder against the wall, taking cover like a pro.

"Three, maybe four Romulans, sir," the boy informs them, benefited by the new angle. "It is difficult to tell in the dark. I have finished programming the altitude and wectors, Commander Spock, but the atiwation protocol is unfinished, sir."

Two more shots ricochet into the room, setting a chair on fire and showering sparks into the air.  
Uhura hastily jams her stolen Romulan disruptor into her waistband. "I can do that," she assures the room. "Basic delayed activation; I can do that."

"A little bit of hurry up, please!" Jim demands, employing a running crouch to bring him level with Chekov on the opposite side of the door. The move gives them flanking capability whilst still providing cover. The two nod to each other and then direct all their concentration into the corridor. It might have been a gesture of solidarity or simply an acknowledgment of the precarious circumstances, but both relax into themselves in the wake of it. There is something undeniably reassuring about knowing that you're not in the shit all by yourself.

"Weather control, engaged," Spock announces. "Engines powering up. Intertial dampeners deactivated."

Jim stands and whirls to face him and the doctor, arm outstretched, phaser pointed right at them.

McCoy boggles. Spock's expression doesn't change in the slightest.

"Well, get out of the damn way, will you?" Jim waves the phaser in a shooing motion.

McCoy and Uhura loop their hands under Spock's arms and haul him aside on the wheeled chair just as Jim lets loose a bolt that cripples the science console. Bones is swearing again and Spock looks vaguely horrified.

"Can't let those bastards undo all your hard work," Jim rationalizes as he grabs Chekov by the collar and strides across the room to Uhura.

When they're all grouped together, he makes the call, and they disappear in a swirl of golden light just as three very angry looking Romulans burst in on them. They rematerialize in the port auxiliary transporter room aboard the _Stalwart_ , with a very shocked and amazed looking Montgomery Scott at the controls.

"Did you see that?" the engineer exclaims. "They were right behind you! Weren't you looking?" He threads his fingers through his thinning ginger hair and lets his jaw fall open in astonishment. "One second later and you'd be toast! What were you waiting for, a written invitation?" His expression darkens to one of anger. "You can't rely on me to be here, you know! What if it were one of the new laddies and he took his sweet time locking on? Where would you be then?"

"Scattered into atoms," Spock replies logically.

Scotty looks to Jim and angles a thumb at the Commander. "Is he trying to be funny?"

"Romulan shot him in the head," Jim shrugs. "Page sickbay and get them to collect him. Meanwhile, I need you to beam us back onto our shuttle."

"What?" Scotty exclaims, aghast. "You barely made it out of there alive! Add to that, thanks to your handiwork, the platform is accelerating at an exponential rate; beaming you back aboard isn't going to be easy!"

Jim opens his mouth to reply just as medical ensign jogs into the room. "You!" Jim says, index finger aimed right at him. "Got any Point training?"

"Uh," the kid stammers, "just Basic, sir."

"Good enough. You're taking Spock's position, I'm your new Point Two. Suit up, you've got sixty seconds."

The kid asks no further questions, just pulls one of the emergency EVA suits from the wall and jams his feet in the legs. Jim likes him already.

Spock steps into his line of sight. "You cannot seriously entertain the notion of returning to the planet's surface. You know what will happen if the weather satellites perform their function."

"Yeah, I do," he says flatly. "Which doesn't change the fact that there are people down there, _innocent_ people and Romulan soldiers with valuable intelligence. Besides," he adds as the whole ship rocks, "you can't exactly tell me that it's safe here on the _Stalwart_."

"I would not claim something that is so blatantly untrue," Spock agrees. "Regardless of your objections, I am participating in this mission."

"Absolutely not," Jim makes a cutting motion with his hand. "You're injured. You stay here."  
Spock turns on his heel, peels off his glove and rolls up his sleeve. "Doctor McCoy, please administer a stimulant and a neurotransmitter stabilizer. You will agree that their effects will counteract the transitory damage caused by the Romulan disruptor."

McCoy looks rebellious, but to Jim's horror, he reaches into his medkit for the requested drugs.

"Bones!"

"He's right, Jim. If I can get him functional again, command cedes back to him. Like it or not, they're the regs."

Kirk turns away, puts his back to them as he hears the hiss of the hypospray and struggles to control his anger. He knows where it comes from, understands that it's got everything to do with the sight of Spock lying on that deck, of not being able to express the true degree of his relief or his gratitude. If life was fair, he'd be allowed one goddamn _second_ to hold him and be thankful, but instead he has this; the hard reality of their work and the oncoming danger that Spock refuses to spare himself.

The Ensign from Medical presents himself, pulling Jim out of his angry reverie. They could do with an extra pair of hands and the kid has obediently suited up. "Name?" he asks, voice a little hoarse with emotion.

"Watson, sir."

Jim raises his eyebrows and swallows a wave of almost hysterical laughter. "Doctor Watson? Are you fucking with me?"

"Uh, no sir?"

Jim massages his temples as they take their places on the pads. "Jesus, my life is insane," he mutters, then sees Watson looking sideways at him and adds, "you're supernumerary, so depending on what we find down there you might be Medical or you might run Point with either of us," he gestures between Spock and himself. "Got it?"

"Understood, sir."

"Put your visor on, Doctor Watson, and pressurize," he advises, dangerously off his game.

"You know," the kid says tentatively as Spock takes his place and gives the command to energise. "Most people just call me Kenny."

 

 


	29. chapter 5.5

Nix Alpha crew, Chekov, and Watson materialize neatly in the airlock that links their medevac shuttle to the weather control platform. Jim offers up a silent prayer of thanks for Scotty's remarkable skill and resolutely pushes that disturbing beagle rumor to the back of his mind. Nobody else besides Chekov could have plotted those coordinates so he's not about to start asking any awkward dog-related questions.

"Separate from the platform immediately," Spock orders, the dried green blood cracking like clay against his pale skin as he speaks. "Lieutenant Uhura, plot a course for the most proximal safe landing to the _Narada's_ drill zone."

She leaps through the airlock and throws herself into the pilot's seat, powering up, strapping in and querying the navigation database in a series of swift, well-practiced movements. Spock follows next, looking out of place aboard the deployed shuttle without his dented and scraped visor which had been lost somewhere either on Aspera or the platform. Jim has a momentary lurch of superstition. The marks on that visor had been as recognizable to him as Spock's face, each and every one of them testament to the Commander's skill, luck and judgement. The spares they keep aboard Nix will suffice, but it will take time for one of them to mark up the same way, and even then, the configuration will be different. It's illogical to miss a piece of equipment, but he does, in the same way he'd feel the absence of a loyal guard dog or a reliable vehicle.

"Incoming!" Uhura warns urgently, jolting Jim out of his reverie.

They barely have time to brace themselves as a small Romulan attack vessel streaks past, strafing Nix's outer hull with bursts of phaser fire. The force of the impact throws every standing person to the deck. Instantly, the platform's automatic course correction algorithm kicks in, pitching everything in the opposite direction and the airlock seal gives an ominous groan of metal fatigue.

Jim flings an arm out, his fingers just catching the handrail. Spock grabs McCoy around the waist and hauls him out of the connecting space. Doctor Watson's panicked shout glances off the airlock walls. Jim meets Spock's eyes, separated by less than a meter of buckled plassteel.

Time stops for a heartbeat. The airlock screams.

"Visors down!" Jim shouts. "Hold on to something!"

Nix rips away into the black like a cork shot from a bottle. Jim's body lifts from the deck, atmosphere rushing past him along with anything that isn't bolted down. His teeth are gritted against the sudden bite of the handrail in his palm. _Just a few more seconds!_ he tells himself, knowing that even weather platforms have depressurization suppression systems. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a pair of booted feet flapping in the hurricane but can't turn his head enough to see if they're Watson's or Chekov's. Most of his view is taken up by spinning stars and flashes of battle as the platform's engines are outmatched by the force of venting pressure. The cloud-covered blue of Aspera swirls sickeningly past.

Finally, when he thinks he can't hold on even a second longer, the clang of an emergency bulkhead resounds through the last of the thinning air and he's weightless at last. He uses his abused right arm to bring his boots to the deck and magnetize them. His line is already in his other hand, looped around the handrail before he allows himself to assess the situation. If that bulkhead blows the rest of the atmosphere behind it will try to take him with it.

Watson's terrified eyes meet his as he struggles for his own footing. Jim feels a momentary flash of pride that EPAS is turning out medics so well versed in Point behaviour, but then his stomach drops away.

"Where's Chekov?"

  
-:-

  
ED996's forcefields are fluctuating along with their primary power coil. The resulting situation is one of chaos where the atmosphere aboard the shuttle endeavours to restore itself and emergency sirens become audible, to silence and a powerful depressurization as containment fails again. Spock has one arm around Doctor McCoy and the other one twisted in his clipped-in line for stability. Nobody aboard has visors on and it is only a matter of time before the humans lose consciousness; the snatched intermittent breaths of thready air insufficient to sustain them.

"Aspera!" he shouts in the oxygenated portion of the cycle, sacrificing his chance to breathe in the hope that Uhura will hear him and understand.

The forcefield collapses again. He and McCoy are slammed into the bulkhead and partially sucked out into space. To his credit, the doctor flings out a leg, hooking it around the bench seat in an attempt to halt their progress. It gives Spock the split second he needs to adjust his grip and pull them back inside, although not fast enough to avoid the bite as the forcefield re-engages across his shoulders. The current is insufficient to harm him, but the sensation is painful.

The split second of unobscured starfield does indicate a change of course; Uhura is taking them down into atmosphere as requested.

He doesn't have time to consider the fate of Jim, Chekov or Watson. In fact, he has barely enough time to bring a heel down on the emergency cockpit divider and insulate Uhura from what is to come. The air trapped inside the forward section should be sufficient to her needs for at least four minutes if she remains calm.

The warm glow of friction begins to light up the jagged rent in their hull where the port airlock used to be. Spock works frantically to secure himself and McCoy to the bench seat, criss-crossing his safety line along their bodies and bringing the crash webbing down over that for good measure. He leaves himself just enough reach to grip the equipment store and furnish them with face masks. The doctor wastes no time yanking down on his to start the flow of oxygen, his lips pinking almost instantly with the first breath.

The heat around them builds quickly with only the intermittent forcefield to protect them. Spock hunches against it, buries McCoy's vulnerable face in his own chest and tries to will away the burn against his ears as Uhura counts down the seconds until impact.

  
-:-

  
"Watson, where ... is ... Chekov?" Jim tries again, calm but firm, striding across the ravaged deck to grip the young medic by the shoulders.

"It all happened so fast," the kid stammers. "I'm not sure, but I think ..."

Jim follows Watson's pointing finger out into space and towards Aspera below. Quick steps take him to the verge of space, his tricorder already in hand, calling up Chekov's transponder signal from the database and demanding a lock from Ops. Precious seconds tick by and Jim grips the instrument harder in his gloved fist. "Come on, _come on!_ " he hisses, eyes glued to the screen.

 _Chirp._

"Yes!" Jim pumps his fist in victory, making Watson flinch. He thumbs his comm. "Ops, Kirk here, can you boost the signal on this transponder comm channel?"

 _Jim!_ Gaila exclaims. _It's really good to hear your voice, gorgeous. Signal boosted, patching you through now._

There's a click and some static, then a reedy and distorted Russian voice fills Jim's ear.

 _Dis is Chekov. Request immediate extraction, over._

"Pavel, I have your twenty, Nix will come and pick you up, over," Jim assures him.

 _I don't think that is wery likely, sir,_ Chekov counters with a wryness in his voice that speaks volumes for his bravery. _They just passed me on their way to the surface. They were under power but systems were failing, over._

Jim feels a clench in his gut. "Gaila, can you confirm?"

 _Confirmed, Jim. Nix are set to make an emergency landing in the next ninety seconds._

"Is everyone aboard accounted for?" he demands.

 _Emergency protocols engaged so Uhura has no visual, but she thinks so._ There's a split second pause where Jim can almost hear Gaila's concentration. _Jim, we've got nobody in the area, the _Stalwart_ is under a lot of pressure and can't deploy Beta crews. Chekov's in an atmospheric suit, do you read me?_

Jim meets Watson's eyes as they widen. No chute. Chekov has no chute.

 _Jim, do you read? Over._

He thumbs the comm. "How long?"

 _Seven, maybe eight minutes._

He punches the bulkhead, but without atmosphere to carry sound it's just pain without the satisfaction. "Shit!" he lifts his hands to his head, fingers curled into the visor the same way he'd usually fist them into his hair. "Okay, okay, there's a way to do this," his eyes pin Watson and he points intently. "Basic includes piloting, you're all things to all people today, Kenny. Unclip and stay close," he orders, then tilts his head. "How's your Romulan? I only ask ‘cause mine's crap."

  
-:-

  
There is a rhythmic sound.

Unbidden, his mind attempts to categorize it.

It offers up many different suggestions, narrowing the field of choice, eliminating impossibilities of context and finally settling on the only logical conclusion. _Breathing,_ Spock thinks. _That is the sound of my breathing._

He forces his eyes open and fights a wave of panic when only darkness greets him. Pitch black and primally terrifying, the nothingness that plays along his optic nerve appears endless. He blinks several times, perhaps seeking evidence that he has, in fact, actually opened his eyes and not merely imagined the act. The physical sensation of his eyelids parting and meeting reassures him.

Something struggles against his chest and the movement cues a barrage of memory that breaks the rhythm of his breath.

"Spock?" a gruff voice questions.

"Doctor."

"Get the hell off me, you weigh a ton."

Not bothering to respond to that piece of blatant untruth, Spock disengages the crash webbing by touch alone and retracts the safety line he used to bind them beneath that. McCoy gingerly untangles himself, the sounds of him stumbling around inside the shuttle now Spock's only clue to his whereabouts. Out of nowhere, bright light blossoms and he's forced to throw up a hand to shield his sensitive eyes.

McCoy holds the medical tricorder aloft, directing the beam upwards instead of at Spock. The Commander lowers his hand and blinks to clear the after images.

"Atmosphere checks out," the Doctor coughs, removing his mask and thus, the distortion from his voice. "Aspera normal."

Spock follows suit, placing it on the bench beside him.

"Are you okay?" McCoy wants to know, shuffling closer across the tilted deck. "You blacked out there for a minute when we hit."

Spock pushes to his feet and uses the bulkhead to steady himself. "I am unharmed."

The doctor ignores him, playing the tricorder over his body as he crosses to the cockpit screen. The mechanism is jammed, so he is forced to use a twisted part of the frame for leverage, throwing his whole body weight on it until it buckles and he can grip it with his hands. Going to his knees, he glances at McCoy. "Stand clear."

With that as the only warning, Spock puts his concealed Vulcan strength to good use and tears the screen from its fitting.

McCoy swallows a little nervously but inches forwards and plays his tricorder light over Spock's shoulder. Uhura lies slumped in her harness, the controls unlit and unresponsive under her hands.

"Now it's your turn to get out of my way," McCoy mutters, pushing past to angle the tricorder at her and place a hand on her carotid, because he's never been the kind of doctor who flirts with technology when his hands or his brain will do. "Unconscious but breathing," he informs the Commander without turning away. The tricorder bleeps and whirs as he detaches the neural scanner to search for possible CNS trauma. His face falls as the readings scroll across the screen. "It's no good," he announces. "She's got a significant subdural haematoma. Must have been a head strike on impact." He does turn then, perhaps to make sure Spock perceives how serious he is. "We shouldn't move her."

"Understood."

"I can do a few things to stabilize her, but we need to get her to a proper medical facility as soon as possible."

Spock turns away, using handholds to make his way to the port door which is angled up at the sky. " _Stalwart, Stalwart_ , this is Spock, do you read?"

A burst of high-pitched static makes him yank the earbud out and press the heel of his hand in its place. A burn of bright orange light in his peripheral vision catches his attention. Lit up magnificently against the stormy sky, Nero's drill platform is busily eating away towards the heart of the planet Aspera. Communication is impossible.

  
-:-

  
Jim glances around the corner he's pressed up against, winces profoundly and pulls back into hiding.

"How many?" Watson is whispering even though very little sound carries outside their visors.  
Remaining suited up is part of the plan, even if it _had_ made crawling through all that systems conduit to the pressurized area of the platform more difficult, especially against the clock. They've got six minutes before Chekov gets up close and personal with the surface of Aspera.

"Four." It's more than they'd been hoping for and Jim watches the kid's face set in apprehension. "If you want to be the one who ..."

"No," Watson cuts him off sharply, swallowing his nervousness. "I can do this. Let's stick to the plan. It's a good plan."

"It's a ridiculous plan," Jim disagrees, "but it'll work."

Watson gives him a sharp look. "Well, that was inspirational."

Jim laughs, low and tight, but chucks the other guy on the shoulder. "You're all right, you know that?"

Watson snorts but gets down on the deck like they planned. It was an incredibly vulnerable way to face down people who wanted to kill you, but Jim had argued that gave Kenny the highest chance of survival. There's not much that's threatening about a five foot seven guy in an EVA suit crawling across the floor spouting rambling nonsense in your native language.

Jim surreptitiously crosses his fingers as Kenny worms his way into the Romulans' line of sight and then deliberately makes a noise to draw their attention. All four of Nero's soldiers leap to their feet, hands on weapons, but when Kenny scrabbles at the smooth deck and hauls himself another foot into the room using just his hands, they visibly relax. Two of them step forward cautiously and circle round, putting their backs to where Jim stands concealed, and seriously, these guys are dumb, because not one of them reports Kenny's appearance to whatever superior officer they have.

The only problem is, that leaves two soldiers between Jim and the airlock. Between them, he can see the green lit interior of their light attack vessel and frowns. He was afraid of this.  
They question Kenny in Romulan and he replies in kind. Jim catches something rude about the Federation, something involving someone's aunt and a particularly nasty case of boils. Vulcan and Romulan might be similar languages but Vulcans just don't cuss people out so Jim is kind of lost. Still, all four Romulans look away from Kenny and share a grin, which is exactly the moment the two EPAS crew need.

Kenny flips onto his back and uses his legs to trip the two soldiers standing over him. Jim bursts out of cover and stuns them on his way past. One of the remaining Romulans is reaching for his disruptor, the other for a communicator. Jim gives one an elbow in the face as he sails between them, the other unable to shoot for fear of hitting his comrade. His hand makes the airlock release just as he empties all the remaining charge in his phaser into the atmospheric safeties. The Romulan ship detaches much more neatly than Nix, with a modest puff and a hiss, although decompression follows just as quickly. Needlessly, Jim holds his breath but this time lets the venting atmosphere suck him out after the ship.

He feels like a poorly aimed spitball, the forcefield-protected Romulan airlock slightly off-centre to his trajectory. There is only a split second to adjust with his suit controls, so he still collects the hull on the way in, hitting the far wall with jarring force. There's no time to collect himself, because like a seasoned pro, Watson has clipped in as they planned and is dangling and jerking at the end of his safety line as atmosphere and asphyxiating Romulans vent into space around him.

Their stolen vessel is not under power so it drifts lazily away from the platform, spinning slightly just to complicate things. Jim springs to his feet, ignores the sharp pain of what is probably a broken rib, gets all of three step's run up, clips his own line to the first thing he sees and launches himself back into space.

Watson's arms are outstretched, reaching for every last inch of distance he can get. If Jim were Spock, he'd already know if the stolen ship had moved too far away, if he was destined to hit the end of his own line like a fish on a hook, too far away to reach Kenny and bring him aboard. If that happens, they're kind of fucked and Chekov, too.

The last few meters tick away painfully, but then their chests slam together, Kenny's arms latching on as Jim reaches around with his laser to slice through the specialized cable just as he feels the tug on his own line that signals maximal play. They're yanked back towards their prize, laughing over the comms and slapping each other on the back. Still, time is running out, so they can't spare more than a second to celebrate being alive. Jim's line sucks them back towards the Romulan ship, the battle for Aspera suddenly more evenly weighted as several Vulcan ships blink into the system.

"Finally!" Jim sighs, knowing that some of the pressure will be taken off the _Stalwart_ and they might, just _might_ , be able to score a little cover fire as Watson rapidly deciphers the controls and their fleet little Romulan prize streaks towards the atmosphere, all the velocity and maneuvrability of future tech at their disposal. It's the first time Jim allows himself to hope they'll actually get to Chekov in time.

  
-:-

  
"Well, I say we stick together," McCoy insists stubbornly.

"Thankfully, this is not a democracy." Spock continues gathering supplies from the shattered contents of Nix's storage cupboards.

"You can't expect me to just _leave_ her behind!"

"I expect you to follow orders."

"You green-blooded son of a bitch," McCoy hisses, stepping into Spock's way, hands balled to fists at his sides. "All the compassion in the world for complete strangers but none for your own crew. You want to leave Uhura here to take her chances? What about Chekov and Watson? Goddammit, Spock, what about _Jim?_ "

Spock clenches his jaw, knowing that the doctor will notice his struggle for control and finding himself displeased by the lapse. "Their best chance for survival is bringing this confrontation to a swift and decisive conclusion, which can not be accomplished by sitting in this shuttle awaiting rescue."

"So, you're going out there to do _what_ , precisely?"

Spock takes a moment to ensure his voice remains calm, level, unperturbed. "I will attempt to locate the nearest ..."

He doesn't get to finish that sentence because the shuttle interior is lit up by disruptor fire. Spock drops to a crouch and returns fire while McCoy wedges himself into the cockpit doorway and scrabbles for the emergency phaser under the console. Two more shots score Nix's interior from a new direction.

"Cover the starboard door," Spock orders. "Do not permit them to flank us."

McCoy tears the phaser from its holster and slides down the tilted deck, loosing one low-energy shot into the night just to show they're covered from his side. "What the hell do we do now?"

Spock blinks into the rain and the night, the muted glow of Aspera's twin moons yielding just enough light in addition to the drill to make his plan feasible. "Now," he says flatly, "you cover me."

"God _damn_ it!" McCoy growls, flipping onto his stomach to shoot wide as Spock drops neatly out of the port door and sprints for the darkness and the trees.

  
-:-

"Gaila, for fuck's sake!" Jim shouts angrily. "Make sure the Vulcans have us flagged as friendly, too, will you?"

 _Copy that,_ she replies. _I'm doing what I can._

Watson's hands are clenched around the yoke and his face is very white. "That was close."

"Try not to think about it too much," Jim advises. "We'll be into atmosphere before you know it."

"Yeah, about that," Kenny flicks him an anxious look. "This thing isn't going to handle very well in atmo."

"Just get me as close as you can."

"This is nuts," Watson argues, flipping them neatly around an incoming piece of wreckage. "Like, really, really nuts; just for the record."

Jim wishes he had something profound to say, something that would help Kenny make sense of it all, but all he can do is shrug. It's a crazy life and he has no excuses or explanations. Fact is, Chekov saved his ass more times than he could count on his Beta crew rotation and he'll be damned if he sees that brilliant mind and twisted sense of humor splattered over the planet they hoped would be a refuge from all this shit.

He keeps that thought firmly in his mind as he lines up for the jump. It doesn't shield him from the fear of reliving that day on Vulcan, from the flashbacks generated by the presence of the drill, or the gut-wrenching certitude that the planet below should be red not blue. What it does offer is a small kernel of peace, a centredness he lacked last time around. He didn't regret jumping for Sulu, but he'd had very little to live for at the time. Now, conversely, with so much to lose, Jim knows he couldn't live with himself if he _didn't_ make the jump.

"Five seconds," Watson calls, and Jim can see Chekov's dark-suited figure against the clouds below.

"Four."

Jim braces himself.

"Three."

He swallows down the nausea.

"Two."

He pats the chute deployment cord on his EVA suit.

"One."

He thinks of Spock as he's thrown out into the sky.

  
-:-

  
Spock moves as quickly and silently as his EVA suit will allow. It speaks to a deep seated part of him, this careful stalking of his enemies, requiring some control to temper his responses. Still, there is no hatred in him, no anger. The situation presents as a practical exercise; at least two Romulan aggressors, last known location x and y, threat level unknown, intent unknown. Objective: disarm and subdue for questioning.

His memory alights on Odesyus, but that was a different time, one where he was most certainly out of control, not like this. He actually smiles into the night, dismissing that part of his emotional control because it is not a priority, managing his fear and his anger is far more important. He will concern himself later with the pleasure such situations afford, will question his ethics and his morality, will perhaps discuss it with Jim and seek his opinion.

There is no part of Spock that entertains the notion that Jim may be dead. He simply will not allow it. Even Vulcans can only deal with a finite number of harsh realities at one time and Spock has his fill here on the storm-ravaged surface of Aspera. Besides, grieving for a potential loss is illogical.

Cleverly, McCoy draws Romulan fire by poking his head into view. The blasts hiss and spit against Nix's hull, serving only to help Spock pinpoint their origin, the doctor's reflexes being well up to the task.

Spock circles carefully behind the first Romulan's position, using the crazed motions of storm-tossed foliage to disguise his approach. It is essential that he retain the element of surprise. Doing so requires that no weapons be discharged. A nerve pinch will serve his purpose, if only he can get close enough to effect that solution. One foot after the other, toe first then heel, ankles carefully turned out and legs braced for maximum balance, Spock reaches out his hand. Lightning flashes and the Romulan looks up.

Prepared for any eventuality, Spock strikes with his fingertips to the other's larynx, effectively silencing him. It leaves him open to the kick that knocks the wind out of him, but that is only to be expected. He calculates he has less than three seconds to subdue his opponent before some noise is made that alerts the other Romulan. Breathless, facing down the barrel of a disruptor for the second time in less than an hour and thoroughly without alternative, Spock does the counterintuitive thing and steps forward into the line of fire to use the element of surprise. The gambit allows him to stun his opponent at close range. Noise is a secondary concern now; he does not wish to take another life.

Of course, the sound of phaser discharge brings the other Romulan almost immediately. Spock drops to a crouch, one hand in the mud, coiled and deadly calm.

  
-:-

  
McCoy tenses at the whine of a phaser, shifts his shoulder against the corner of the floor and the door for another glance outside. This time, it draws no fire and he figures that means Spock has his hands full. Leonard debates with himself for a few seconds, Uhura's lack of protection warring with his inherent dislike of sitting there in the dark doing nothing while it's at least two against one for Spock. Finally, the distinctive thud of flesh against flesh and a shout of pain decides him.

McCoy slides down the hull and runs, hunched over and flooded with adrenaline towards the sound of fighting.

  
-:-

  
Klicks above the planet's surface, Jim watches as his trajectory slides from Asperan day into night. Chekov's suit is a dark shadow against an even darker backdrop, only the garish reflective striping doing anything to distinguish him. Jim grits his teeth and coaxes another burst of speed out of his suit's jets. He's low on fuel but the window left open to make this save is frighteningly narrow. His HUD flashes errors at him, redlining across the board. He planks his body, reducing drag, ducking his head down and trusting to the display in his visor for course correction. It works.

Within a minute, Chekov is almost within reach, his arms and legs splayed in an attempt to slow his freefall. Jim waits until the last possible second before looking up. They're so close to the ground he thinks he can count the individual leaves on the trees, wet and glinting with moonlight.

He slams into Chekov knocking them both into a tumble and pulls his chute instantaneously. They jerk upwards and the kid shifts in Jim's grip, scrabbling to keep a hold through two slick EVA suits. Jim wraps his legs around Chekov's waist, reaching up to haul on the attitude lines in a futile attempt to direct their landing. Wind grips the chute and swings them in a crazy, sickening arc. The orange burn of the drill platform is dangerously close. Lightning flashes, sparking in the whites of Chekov's eyes and momentarily blinds both of them. Jim hauls again, trying to break the spiral, but it's no good. At this point, they've probably lost enough speed to touch down in one piece. All they can do is hope the darkness offers up something softer than the cliffs in Jim's memory.

  
-:-

  
McCoy scowls into the rain and the wind, wishing he'd thought to slip on a pair of Point goggles before embarking on this suicide mission. His face is numb from cold, but if he could move his lips, he'd be cursing up a storm of his own. Damn fool Vulcan has to be a hero and now look what happens; Leonard in the dark, blind at a distance of more than a foot, clutching a pathetic EPAS phaser and up against who knows how many Romulans. What a joke.

He keeps up the inner monologue of vitriol because he's almost too angry to be terrified. What kind of operation are they running here, anyway? He didn't sign up for this. He has a kid and career and aspires to have a life, too, one of these days. To hell with ending it all at the business end of a Romulan distruptor on this rotten mud ball. He's a _doctor_ , goddammit, not a...

A hand grips his shoulder and he leaps into the air. "Doctor."

"Son of a _bitch_ , Spock!" McCoy howls, slapping his hand away. "You frightened the life out of me!"

"My apologies. However, there is a Romulan who requires medical attention and another who will soon be waking from the effects of a stun blast."

"I could have shot you!" he continues, furious and yet almost giddy with relief. "You should have warned me."

Spock tilts his head, calm as you like and replies, "I assumed you heard me approach."

"You assumed wrong!"

"Clearly."

McCoy wipes the rain out of his eyes with his fingertips and gestures at the ground with his phaser. "Lead the way and count yourself lucky I don't shoot you in the ass for taking years off my life."

Spock doesn't dignify that with a response, just turns and sets off into the night, forcing McCoy to move quickly over the slippery ground or lose him in the darkness. In fact, he's so busy concentrating on his footing that the sight of the first Romulan takes him by surprise. A shiver runs up his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. Spock stands watch, using his body as a shield against the weather while McCoy takes out his tricorder with clumsy hands.

"Well, he's alive," he says finally, because given his appearance that outcome was questionable. "But his core temperature is dangerously low. We need to get him warmed up or he's not going to make it."

Spock nods, firmly brushes the doctor aside and slings the battered Romulan over his shoulder as though the weight were nothing. "This way."

McCoy pushes off his stiff and muddy knees to trot obediently after him, infinitely glad that Spock is on their side.

The other Romulan is still out cold from the stun blast, face down and bubbling into the mud. McCoy fixes that with a hefty shove, revealing the green bruising to their hostage's larynx. A quick scan shows no lasting damage. He's in much better shape than the one draped over Spock's shoulder like some kind of victory sash.

"Doctor?"

"He'll be out for another few minutes from the stun alone, but I can give him something to keep him under for a while longer. I sure as hell can't carry him and you've got your hands full there."  
Spock says nothing for a few moments and McCoy can just picture the 'thinking frown' on his face, blind as he is the near total darkness.

"That will not be necessary."

  
-:-

  
The first time Chekov tries to put weight on his right ankle he howls in agony, smothering the sound with his own hands, very aware of the Romulan presence. Jim offers a shoulder, some balance, and the kid takes it, gasping as though oxygen might take the pain away.

"I think it is broken," he sobs.

Jim looks around desperately at the uneven terrain. "Yeah, I think you're right."

"Well," the kid shudders one last time, "it could be worse; it could be your ankle broken and you are much too heavy for me to carry."

Jim tongues his bottom lip and laughs, shaking his head. "Shut up already, I've got a plan."

"If your last plan was jumping out of a perfectly good ship, I am not sure we will survive your next one."

Still laughing softly, they stagger into the lee of one of the larger boulders, blessedly cutting out the full force of the storm. Jim props Chekov against the cold stone and squints up at the sky, then down at his chrono. "Shit," he says vehemently.

"What?"

"We've got about ten minutes before that code you and Spock wrote rains down seven kinds of hell right where we're standing."

"Oh my god."

"My thoughts exactly. Come on," Jim ducks under Chekov's arm again, but pauses as a blip appears on his HUD. The crosshair falters and his stomach clenches, but then it's there again, even stronger.

"Do you see that?" Chekov asks softly, obviously receiving the same signal from within his suit.

"I sure do."

"What are the chances?" he grins, face still white from the pain.

Jim takes as much weight on himself as possible and takes the most direct route to Nix's homing beacon. "Spock can probably tell you to six decimal places when we get there."

"Oh, I look forward to it."

They continue on in much the same vein, trading jokes and anecdotes whilst slipping and sliding down the rocky incline. Jim knows they should be keeping a lower profile, but really, if they stumble into a group of Romulans there isn't a lot they can do about it with one nearly depleted phaser and a broken ankle between them. He has no choice but to trust that their luck holds and they make it to the shuttle undiscovered. At least the horrific weather will be doing as much to hinder their enemies. Thinking on that leads to mentally urging the storm on, willing it to rain harder, get colder, buffet them and spin them around. Nix's beacon is a bright blue glow on the horizon of his HUD, drawing gradually closer with each painful step. It's Jim's lodestone, his safe harbor. Chekov rattles on breathlessly about mother Russia and how he was playing barefoot in colder conditions than these. Jim responds, but all he can think of is Spock and Bones and Uhura, the brightness of the shuttle interior and two blessed seconds to close his eyes. God, to feel _warm_ again! To give in to the shaking he can feel hiding at the base of his spine, wrapped in adrenaline and flashbacks of falling.

Chekov puts too much weight on his bad ankle and they're pulled to their knees. Gasping for breath, Jim is instantly hauling him upright, pressing another half dose of analgesia into his neck, working to keep him out of agony but also conscious.

"Thank you," Chekov manages between chattering teeth.

"No problem."

Jim knows it's cold, but it's not _that_ cold within their insulated EVA suits. Chekov must be going in to shock. Resolutely, he tries to shoulder even more of the kid's slight weight and sets off again, feet slipping and sliding in the mud, barely finding enough purchase on the rocks and grass to propel them along. Chekov is no longer talking but his breath comes in harsh, shivering gasps over Jim's comm; they've left the channel between them open.

Time seems to lose all meaning. Jim's mind shuts down, piece by piece, function by function, until all he knows is the fall of each foot, the burn in his thighs, the biting cold eating away at his face because he's out of suit air and has to ditch his visor in order to breathe.

They fetch up against Nix's hull with a thud.

It takes Jim a moment to process the fact that he doesn't have to keep walking, that this isn't an obstacle to backtrack around, but their final destination instead. It has none of the warmth and light of his daydream, and is absent all of his friends. Chekov collapses to the ground with a squelch and Jim doesn't have the heart or the energy to lift him again. Instead, he clambers awkwardly into the listing shuttle, crash-landed on a thirty-something degree angle.

"Hello?" he calls, too loudly for the enclosed space.

Clumsy with cold, he sticks his head into the cockpit and finds it empty. Defeated and exhausted, he lets his cheek rest against the icy bulkhead and just breathes for a moment, relishing the absence of gale force winds in his face. It's marginally warmer here and he really should get Chekov inside and out of the rain. He should search for the right hypos to stabilize him, perhaps even a tricorder to diagnose that ankle and a knitter to mend the worst of it. He will, too, just as soon as his brain figures out how to talk to his legs.

"Jim?"

"Yeah Pavel, hang tight."

"No, someone is coming."

His overworked adrenals manage another jolt to his abused system. "Don't move! It's dark and they might not see you. I've got this."

Jim slips and slides his way with muddy boots to the port door, using the hull for cover as he searches for the movement that attracted Chekov's attention. He palms his phaser as a tall figure emerges into the flattened area created by the shuttle crash. Below his vantage, Chekov can't help but tense, knowing their chances of fighting off even a single Romulan with what's at their disposal. Jim waits, biding his time, hoping against all reason that the figure will deviate from its course, will pass them by into the night. No such luck.

He fingers the trigger on his phaser, sets it for highest stun; the only one that might work on a Romulan. It means only one shot so he's got to make it count, needs to see the points of his ears before the trigger gets pulled.

Only, when the points of those ears do resolve, so does the face and it's wonderfully familiar.  
"Spock!"

The figure tilts its head. "Jim?"

"And Chekov, too," he confirms, clambering out of the shuttle, hands shaking with relief and the come-down. "What about the others?"

"Point six kilometers away, in a cave."

They stand for a second, just staring at each other. Jim feels a wave of raw feeling welling up inside him because _Spock is alive!_ He's alive and so is everyone else. The strength of it threatens to overwhelm him, so he swallows it down and uses Nix's hull to steady himself. "Well, we better get moving because the weather is about to take a turn for the worse."

  
"I know."

Spock holds his eyes a moment longer before bending and lifting Chekov into his arms. It's impossible to tell in the dark, but Jim imagines his own tumultuous feelings were mirrored there.

  
-:-

  
McCoy stands over their two Romulan captives with a phaser in one hand and a medical tricorder in the other. The one who got on the wrong side of a fight with Spock had to be placed into a medically induced coma, being far too hypothermic to wake safely. The one who was stunned had woken up not two minutes ago and started snarling and cursing and thrashing around like a fish out of water. Leonard is ashamed to admit he slipped up in his panic and dosed him double, but he's still nursing the bruise he earned delivering that hypo so Spock can take it like a Vulcan and accept it's going to be a while before either Romulan is conscious.

Against his medical opinion, Spock had insisted on removing Uhura from the shuttle, so she lies carefully immobilized and covered with shock blankets in the warmest part of the cave. That leaves McCoy the only conscious person around, but he's still clutching the phaser like a lifeline, almost afraid to blink in case the little he knows about Romulan physiology proves false and one of them wakes to end him with their three-times human strength.

He's just talking himself down from the worst of his panic when a blinding flash illuminates the interior of the cave, hot white and laced with orange like the sun just took up residence at the entrance. It's followed by a tremendous boom that has him tearing his hands away from his eyes to cover his ears instead. It fades like a clap of thunder, rolling away into the distance, heard, no doubt, on the other side of the goddamn _planet_.

Boots shuffle behind him and McCoy's already racing heart skips a beat when he realizes he's dropped the phaser and put his back to the entrance in an instinctive attempt to hide from what can only be the wrath of gods.

Luckily, it's only Spock returning from the shuttle, laden with not only all the supplies he could carry, but also Chekov and trailing Jim in his wake.

"What the hell was that?" he demands, stooping to retrieve his fallen tricorder and making a beeline for Chekov.

"Weather satellites did the trick," Jim rasps, his voice ruined from shouting over the wind. "Shut down the drill platform."

"How?" McCoy demands, but doesn't take his eyes from Chekov as Spock lays him out carefully on a piece of sandy floor.

Jim waves a hand airily, Leonard can't see it, but he knows. "With weathery weather stuff," he coughs. "You know."

Spock catches the doctor's eye. "We utilized the weather satellites' electrical capacity to exponentially increase the static charge held within the storm system and then overloaded the drill's electromagnetic containment field causing a feedback loop that has a seventy two point five percent chance of having completely destroyed the drill itself rather than simply shutting it down."

"Lighting," Jim explained. "We zapped it with lightning."

McCoy looks over just in time to see Jim make gun hands before sliding down the wall in a heap of exhaustion. He turns to Spock. "Chekov will be fine, and those other two will be out for at least an hour," he says, and it's tacit permission of the kind that a superior officer shouldn't need, but Spock is funny about the points where emotion overlaps his sense of duty. And yes, he might shift a little to observe as Spock finally focuses on Jim, but some of his interest is medical. As for the rest, it's not a crime to care, whatever Vulcans have to say on the matter.

So it is that McCoy is the only one paying attention when Spock kneels and carefully gathers Jim to his chest, head bowed, eyes wide open and staring at nothing even as Jim's close in relief and his hands grip the Commander's EVA suit tightly. They don't move for a long time. McCoy makes himself look away.

 

 


	30. chapter 5.6

Jim takes it as a measure of how concerned Spock is that he has to stir first, to gently disentangle them even if he can't bring himself to break all contact. He keeps his hands on Spock's arms like a point of reference. "With the drill taken out, we should be able to use transporters," he says forcing the words past his abused throat and reluctance to shatter the moment.

Spock nods, rests his head briefly against Jim's, the action shielded from McCoy by his shoulders. "A reasonable assumption. The sooner it is safe to wake either of our hostages, the sooner we may begin to understand Nero's rationale for attempting to destroy Aspera."

Over Spock's shoulder, Jim can see Bones turn away, giving them some privacy as he works on Chekov. Knowing that they're unwatched gives him the courage to press a quick, hard kiss to Spock's lips. The skin is cold and the contact is too fleeting for a response, but his hands hands return Jim's pressure and it's enough. "I thought he's always after future tech."

"According to the information provided by Prime, Nero has never before broken off a previous military engagement to attend a spatial anomaly. It could be mere coincidence, but may imply some unique importance to the temporal rift surrounding this planet."

"Is he trying to get home?" Jim wonders.

"Unlikely, given that Romulus is destroyed in his universe; I fail to comprehend the appeal of returning. Such a goal would not be rational."

"You may have noticed that those of us with less immaculate control of their emotions can be irrational at times," he smiles, finally feeling the first glimpse of heat from Spock's body begin to seep into his EVA suit via proximity.

Spock's lips twitch in response but there is too much lingering anxiety in his eyes for it to break through further. "Indeed, although some more than others."

"Hey," he admonishes softly, surprised at the tenderness in his own voice.

With one last press of a glove against Jim's cheek, Spock straightens and turns to McCoy. "Your recommendation on the use of transporters, doctor?"

Bones twists on his knees, still working on Chekov. "Uhura and the whiz kid here are good to go, as is the Romulan you stunned and I drugged. The other one, however, I wouldn't like to mix up his molecules anymore than you've already done with your fists. Hardlock transfer would be the safer option, but if it's beaming or nothing, then..." he shrugs, "lesser of two evils, I suppose."

Spock nods and thumbs his comm. " _Stalwart_ , this is Spock, please respond."  
Jim opens his own comm to the widest band, listening to the public channel for a hint of response from above.

 _Spock! Your signal is distorted, transmit your co-ordinates,_ Gaila says almost immediately, her transmission filled with static and ultrasonic whines.

The Commander glances around the cave, pulls his tricorder and scans the rock. "Potassium rich," he informs them. "Similar in composition to those that shield the proposed Aid Camp. Achieving a clear signal in here is unlikely." Pocketing the tricorder and palming his phaser, Spock strides to the cave mouth and disappears into the easing storm.

"Goddammit," Jim curses under his breath. "Why can't he wait for back-up?"

"Jim, you're in no condition ..." McCoy starts.

"None of us are," he shoots back, hauling himself upright on leaden legs. "What choice do we have?" He doesn't wait for a reply, just switches his phaser to a mid-range stun so he's got more than one shot and edges out into the gradually dissipating storm to provide the cover Spock is apparently willing to do without.

The destruction of the drill platform has destabilized the storm system to a point where there is even a patch of star-spattered sky on view, although the wind has gone crazy, buffeting from alternating directions as high and low pressure pockets vie for equilibrium. If only Nero hadn't redesigned the drill to be independent of the _Narada_ after Vulcan, Jim calculates the charge might even have damaged the impressive ship herself. Instead, the dust is still rising from where the spiked cable and gravity buoy have crashed to earth, obscuring the twin moons and darkening the sky to the west even further, blacker than true night.

Spock has clambered up to crouch between two boulders at the apex of the cave mouth, sensible enough to keep a low profile even as he searches for high ground. Jim supposes he should be grateful he doesn't have far too go, but his legs are like jelly as he attempts to follow, the phaser back in its holster, trusting that Spock realizes the only person who would make so much noise is an exhausted human being.

Sure enough, he's greeted by no more than a nod of acknowledgement as Spock keeps relaying information and catching up on deployment decisions that have been made when communications were jammed. Jim presses his back to the other boulder and covers the spread of slope in his sights. It's still cold as hell outside, so he uses Spock's calm voice as a focus, letting the minutia of logistics wash over him, comfortingly familiar. It has the added benefit of bringing him up to speed on the battle that rages above them; the Vulcan ships engaging the _Narada_ and Romulan sister ships, the EPAS relics lending support where they can, all except for the _Atlas_ which has suffered major systems failure at the hands of a cluster bomb and will need some rescuing of her own.

It's while he's sitting there, nominally conscious but so drained he can barely keep his phaser arm aloft, that Jim's mind starts to form patterns out of the distortion in the open channel. The shifting rolls of static and variably pitched whines lodge in the base of his skull, itching and uncomfortable like an annoying advertising jingle or a really bad pop song. He frowns against the undeniable rhythm of it.

"Can you hear that?"

Spock stills, instantly on guard, eyes sweeping the darkness. "Bearing?"

"No, over the comms," he clarifies. "In the background; something else."

Spock looks at him, no doubt cataloguing the many signs of exhaustion, but with a press of his lips he breaks the Ops and Tactics stream with a closed comm request. "Gaila, scan for all subspace transmissions within two standard deviations of the EPAS open channel and search for points of congruence, over."

 _Scanning. Any idea what I'm looking for?_

"No," Spock says when Jim shakes his head in apology.

Minutes slip past that could have been used to co-ordinate rescue efforts or get their injured members beamed off the surface and Jim feels the hard burn of a blush on his throat despite the cold. It had been stupid to mention what was probably just a figment of his ...

 _Confirmed, Commander. Additional data stream has hijacked our frequency and is transmitting large quantities of data. Origin unknown._

Spock's eyebrows fly up. "Speculation?"

 _A signal that strong has to originate in-system. I'm querying the Vulcan fleet and the Tat'sar._ There's a pause while she does so. _Vulcans and EPAS deny responsibility and Captain Senekot states point of origin is the Narada._

"Content?"

 _Encrypted,_ Gaila sighs, frustrated. _It's like half of it is missing all the time and we're only hearing fifty percent of the signal. I can't get anything from it except to say that it's repeating. Is Uhura with you? She's got a natural ear for this kind of thing._

"Lieutenant Uhura is unconscious," Spock informs her. "Are there any Romulan prisoners available for questioning?"

 _No, sir. Apart from your two, there are only three others; one that's not likely to survive and two held by a Point team we can't contact over comms._

"Understood."

 _Commander, I think the signal is weakening,_ Gaila adds. _Whoever Nero is communicating with might have already got the message, or else he knows we're monitoring it and is shutting it down. We have a limited time frame before it degrades completely and we won't get anything from it even with the correct cypher._

Jim shuffles closer on his heels. "If that's the case, then it must be pretty important, whatever it is."

"Agreed." Spock's face is set, radiating determination. He thumbs the comm again. "Gaila, record as much of the signal as possible, highest fidelity, and distribute copies to the other EPAS vessels as a safeguard."

 _Aye, Commander, but this is unlike anything I've seen before. I get the feeling it won't make much sense unless we decode it live. There's something organic about it; the carrier wave itself might be encrypted._

"Acknowledged. Continue with full-scale evacuation of Aspera. Deploy Beta shift as necessary to support Alpha crews and vessels in need of assistance. Acquire transporter lock on our position and re-route all Divisional Command decisions to Lieutenant Kirk when he beams back aboard the _Stalwart_.

 _Copy that, Ops out._

Spock brushes past him and negotiates the downward climb like a mountain goat, not putting a foot wrong, while Jim slips and slides down behind him, gloved hand trailing in the mud for balance.

"Why reroute comms to me?" he demands, breathless and bruised as they both duck back into the cave. "Spock?"

"Commander," McCoy interrupts, blocking their path. "Uhura and your Romulan friend need urgent medical assistance. We can't delay any longer or I won't be held responsible for any permanent damage they sustain."

Spock points at the drugged Romulan. "It is necessary to wake him for questioning."

"I can't _do_ that!" McCoy growls in frustration. "I've already told you, his system is too compromised and what I know about Romulan pharmacokinetics wouldn't fill a thimble. I don't want to risk giving him any additional drugs."

"It is necessary," Spock insists. "We must break Nero's communication encryption."

"Wait just a second," Jim steps in between them, recognizing the apoplectic look on McCoy's face and the cold remains of the anger in Spock's eyes, perhaps left over from the doctor's earlier racial faux pas, otherwise attributable to the task that lies before him now. "You're rerouting DivCO comms to me so you can interrogate a prisoner? With what incentive?"

"With whatever incentive becomes necessary." Spock's jaw tightens resolutely, and perhaps only Jim can see the reluctance in his eyes because McCoy is going to pop something by the look of him.

" _Torture_ , Spock? You can't be serious! There's got to be another way! Even if it wasn't ethically deplorable, neither of them is physically stable enough to endure the kind of force needed to make them talk. I know times of war give us special dispensation, but good god man, we're not Starfleet Intelligence! This is so far out of our purview it's in another galaxy!"

"Whilst I share your distaste for physical violence ..."

"All evidence to the contrary!" McCoy yells, pointing to their battered Romulan prisoner.

"A minimum force was used to subdue him; the extreme cold is responsible for the acuity of his condition, as you well know, doctor."

"Don't give me that, you pointy-eared bastard!" he accuses, stepping closer and stabbing the air with his index finger. "We all know what a myth Vulcan pacifism is, or has everyone else forgotten T'Loren's little psychotic break?"

"I grow tired of your irrational xenophobic accusations," Spock snaps tightly. "Administer the required drug, after which you may assist Lieutenant Kirk in positioning Chekov, Uhura and the injured prisoner for beaming outside the signal interference of this cave."

"I'm not leaving you here alone with him!" McCoy grips his hypo tightly as though Spock might attempt to take it from him. "I have a duty to my patients!"

Spock takes a half step forward, almost sandwiching Jim against the doctor's chest. "This, from the man who was all too willing to leave every non-human on the surface of this planet to die." His level voice is colored with derision, blatant enough that even McCoy can't fail to miss it. "Take a close look at his ears, his face, his blood," Spock advises, "surely he marks himself undeserving of your protection?"

McCoy's voice drops to a harsh whisper. "If you truly believed I was a xenophobe, you'd have had my head shrunk by 'Fleet medical a long time ago! Dammit Spock, I _know_ this is important and I _know_ I was an ass before, but Jim was right." He pauses to sigh heavily at the cave floor, eyes downcast. "A life is a life. The second we start believing differently, everything changes. I can't live with that, and I refuse to believe you can."

The doctor and the Commander stare at each other while the seconds tick away and the signal continues to deteriorate.

"I'm sorry," Jim shakes his head, "but there _is_ another way."

Three sets of eyes turn on him as even Chekov rouses from his analgesic doze and blinks into the loaded silence.

"Clarify."

"You can make it so he can't lie to you," he reminds Spock, as though he might have forgotten. Jim isn't sure if the option truly hasn't occurred to him, or if it has and he's dismissed it for his own reasons. "You won't even need to wake him."

"Lieutenant Kirk," Spock says, as calm as if he were sitting in the mess hall. "I am aware of the urgency inherent in our situation. Are you aware of the nature of what you ask?"

Jim swallows, recognizing Spock at his most controlled, suddenly unsure whether or not he has the _faintest clue_ the number of taboos he's just stepped all over. The thought of his lover rummaging around like a thief in someone's mind makes his skin crawl. The distaste is multi-faceted, tinged with a proprietary sense of 'what's mine won't be shared,' but also mixed with a numbing dread that Spock is actually capable of invading and dominating another being like that. He resists the urge to touch as they do when they debate, even something as simple as a glove on his sleeve, realizing that there is the potential for Spock to sense his fear and distaste, then subsequently misinterpret it.

Jim clears his throat. "I don't like the idea," he admits, "but is there a safer alternative?"

Chekov lets up on frowning just enough to raise his head and enter into the conversation. "Somebody mind telling me what we're talking about?"

Spock's eyes are black and hard. "The Lieutenant suggests a mind meld."

"You can do that?" Bones wants to know, shifting from foot to foot. "On someone who doesn't want to cooperate?"

"It is an exceptionally distasteful interrogation technique."

"But it's possible?" Jim buts in, stubbornly suppressing his own emotional response to the concept.

"You mean, you can get what you need from him without doing more than laying a hand on his face?" McCoy demands.

"In the physical sense, yes," Spock agrees. "But such a violation is considered morally reprehensible amongst Vulcans."

"Well, goddammit man, you can't have it both ways! He won't be the first person you've melded with in the line of duty, and odds are he has the information we need." The doctor hefts his hypo in one hand like a weapon. "This is not the moment to play diplomat. The _Tat'sar_ might be quite a ship, but even with support from New Vulcan, a handful of us aren't going to hold against the lynch pin of Nero's assault force for long. If this can save lives, you owe it to the people in the firing line to do whatever is reasonable."

Spock's face blanks even further, the light going out of his eyes, shutting everyone out.

Jim struggles for a moment, then, "I'm sorry, but Bones is right," he's forced to say. "I don't see the alternative."

Spock pushes to his feet and takes a couple of steps further into the cave, into the darkness and away from them. Lightning flashes and Jim can see his hands clenched into fists. He recalls Spock's panic with the rescue meld he performed on the Vulcan patient, Stoll, and wonders if he fears another loss of self.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," Spock says tightly, "or the one. Stabilize the prisoner. I will attempt a meld."

Jim scowls at McCoy, at the Romulan and at the cave for good measure, just because he's pissed with the situation in its entirety. "I'll be here," he promises.

"Illogical," the Commander says without turning. "Your presence is required aboard the _Stalwart_. You will make use of the drill platform's destruction and beam aboard immediately."

"Spock ..."

He turns, pulling at the fastening of his glove to free it, clearly resolved. "Lieutenant Kirk, report to the _Stalwart_ and co-ordinate Prime Division's defensive and rescue efforts."

Jim is chilled by the absolute blankness on Spock's face. "Are you sure you don't need me?"

Spock kneels, brushing past them to take his place at the Romulan's side. His rain-slick face turns sharply, brows clenched in a frown. "Are you questioning my orders?"

Jim frowns, confused by the sudden fierceness. "No, sir."

"Take the others," Spock says. "Do your duty. I will extract the correct frequency from his mind."

"Aye, Commander."

"Doctor McCoy, you will remain in the event that medical assistance is required."

Bones nods silently, gripping his medkit like a lifeline. His eyes, when they find Jim's, are suddenly apologetic and a little scared, as though the reality of what Spock is about to do has only just sunk in.

Jim moves awkwardly on legs numb from cold and exhaustion. He and McCoy work quickly to position Uhura and Chekov in the lee of the cave mouth for clear beaming. His nearly depleted phaser feels heavy and ominous through his gloves. He knows Spock is right and that he is needed aboard the ship, but something is screaming at him to stay, compelling him against his orders. It claws at him, as terrifying as if he stands on a ledge and someone commands him to step into space. It feels like self-preservation; as instinctive and primal as a fear of the dark.

"Jim," Spock snaps. "Carry out my orders."

"Right," he mutters, gripping the phaser more tightly as he forces himself to thumb the comm. "Gaila, three to beam up." One step after the other, weighed down by an inexplicable dread, Jim staggers free of the cave's shielding minerals.

 _Jim? What about Spock and ..._

"No time for chit chat," he gasps, raising a hand to his mouth both to shield the mic from the wind and to press down a wave of sudden nausea.

 _Locking onto your signal._

-:-

Alone in the cave with Spock and the Romulan, McCoy crouches next to their bodies in the darkness. He has two hypos already loaded, one full of stimulants and one full of sedatives. He really doesn't have a clue which one he'll need. Also, he's banking on the fact that Romulans and Vulcans share a common ancestry to calibrate the dosages and ratios. This is front line medicine, all the way.

It seems like Spock is needlessly delayed the meld, but when the distinctive shimmer of a transporter beam snatches the others from the narrow ledge outside, McCoy realizes that for his own reasons Spock doesn't want Jim to see this. That only unsettles the doctor even further. Of all the people in Prime Division, Spock trusts Kirk with more of himself than any other. He suppresses a shiver down his spine, one that he can't blame on the all pervading chill. If he were a superstitious man and not a man of science, he might take it as an omen.

Spock tosses his gloves to the ground and flexes the fingers in his right hand. His eyes are shadowed, locked onto the unconscious face of their prisoner. Reluctantly, almost hesitantly, he reaches out, his fingertips pressing and seeking against the lax flesh. Gritting his teeth, McCoy shifts closer, refusing to spare himself given that he supported this venture. The Romulan's eyes snap wide, startling him, and Spock's head bows as the meld establishes. The Romulan's breathing quickens, his eyes blinking and unseeing in response to the mental invasion. Small capillaries in the whites of them burst under the sudden increase in systolic blood pressure. Spock gasps and it's almost a sob.

Like something out of an old horror movie, Spock and the prisoner both begin to speak at the same time, as though with a shared voice.

"The frequency is subsonic," they whisper, strained and tortured in the dark.

Spock adjusts his hand, leaving green bruises in his wake as his fingertips quest for a deeper connection.

"Two bands," they groan. "Oscillations at point zero two and point one."

McCoy can feel a cold sweat spring up on his brow. "The carrier band, Spock! We need the frequency!" His urgency is born of a desire to end this swiftly.

Spock speaks alone, then. "He resists."

The unconscious Romulan continues to stare through them both, eyes fixed and pupils dilated.  
Dreamlike and slow, Spock raises his left hand so that it frames the Romulan's face, a mirror image of the other hand. When it contacts the skin, they both cry out, anguished and dark as though broken beyond repair. A small trickle of green blood weaves its way from the Romulan's nostril, sliding down his cheek to disappear into the shadow of Spock's palm. McCoy swears under his breath and scrambles for his tricorder.

"Alpha nine," they gasp, "zero point six ... lambda four point two."

The second the precious frequency is revealed, the Romulan goes into fits, shaking Spock's hands free. McCoy tosses his pre-prepared hypos into his kit and slaps in a vial of anti-convulsants, administering a liberal dose.

"Spock, dammit, help me roll him over before he obstructs!"

When there is no response, McCoy casts around desperately only to find Spock has dug his heels into the dirt, scrabbling away into the shadows with the back of his hand pressed against his mouth as though he doesn't know whose voice will emerge if he takes it away.

-:-

Jim steps off the transporter pad and into the firm hands of Christine Chapel.

"You're a mess," she tells him, tricorder bleeping.

"You should see the other guy ... guys," he corrects himself, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm fine, seriously. Uhura and Chekov need you more."

Her eyes flick away to test the truth of that, then back, shrouded in apology.

"Told you," Jim croaks, feeling his chapped lips split as he forces a smile. "Although, if you can spare me a stim I won't complain."

"It'd be the first time ever that you don't bitch about a hypo," she sighs, shooting him up like she disapproves, even though it's clear his attempt at humour has reassured her.

Jim rubs absently at his neck, wondering if Chapel just has lighter hands or if the numbing cold still lingers to protect him from the sting. "What's our current ..."

"Lieutenant Kirk!" the XO exclaims, barreling into the transporter room. "The Captain wants you on the Bridge!"

" ... status," Jim finishes lamely.

"Now!" Harris insists when Jim hesitates.

"With all due respect to the Captain, I'm Acting DivCO, which means I've got pressing duties with Ops and a bunch of staff who need urgent debriefing."

"Forget all that!"

" _Forget it?_ " Jim echoes in disbelief, finding a kernel of anger amongst the fatigue and leaning on it. "I've got a responsibility to my crews," he insists.

"Captain Taylor understands that."

"I'm just not so sure he does," Jim snaps, feeling the stim hit home, its harsh buzz lighting a fire under his disapproval. "Or else he wouldn't be stopping me from doing my job."

Harris grips him by the arm, his round face a little wide-eyed. "Captain said _immediately_ , Lieutenant."

"Get your hands off me." He yanks his arm away but stalks towards the door. "I know what a chain of command is."

Harris jogs after him, his face like thunder, and Jim knows he's busy making an enemy out of a man who was previously, at worst, slightly hostile towards him. Unfortunately, his ability to be diplomatic is severely depleted by fatigue, free-fall and the awareness that Spock is about to do something that disgusts him, and that the last one is all his fault. He seethes all the way to the Bridge, wondering what possessed him to push so hard for that mind meld when the concept is so disturbing. He knows a little about Spock's inner landscape, is aware of the hesitancy with which he exposes it and the potential repercussions. He doesn't want Spock to close down even more and isn't comfortable with anyone else fucking around in there. Romulans are a Vulcanoid species, but it hadn't occurred to Jim to wonder if the meld might be dangerous for Spock, if the prisoner might damage him there, where nobody can even see.

"So stupid," he mutters under his breath to the closed turbolift doors. Harris glances at him sideways, but Jim ignores it, choosing to grind his teeth instead. "Damn."

"Lieutenant..."

"Not your business," Jim snaps, swallowing heavily and hoping like hell the universe owes him a favor. If not him, then surely Spock has racked up a few.

The doors swish open and they march onto the Bridge. Gaila gives him a little wave and he manages to nod back; none of this is her fault, after all.

Taylor pushes to his feet, swivelling the chair in his wake so that it sits askew, disrupting the line of the mezzanine. "Lieutenant Kirk, the Vulcan Ambassador and several senior officials have beamed aboard and are requesting your presence."

This stops Jim in his tracks. "Come again?"

The Captain grips him by the shoulder and steers him towards the ready room. "This way, son."

Jim barely has time to gather his scattered, frozen wits before he's face to face with Spock's dad and ... _other_ Spock. "Hi," he says, feeling like the last few hours have caught up with him between one step and the next. He should have asked for a double dose of stims and fine tremors be damned.

Prime steps forwards, one hand outstretched for his elbow, and it's already such a familiar gesture that Jim moves into the touch without thinking. This has him being led to face the viewscreen where Captain Senekot is displayed in all his aloof Vulcan glory. Everyone nods at everyone else and Jim still has no fucking idea what is going on or why he's not in Ops figuring out who is dead and how to get those who aren't off the surface of Aspera.

"The tide of the battle is turning against Nero and his allies," Senekot informs them flatly, ignoring Jim's blatant surprise. "We anticipate he will be forced to execute a strategic retreat within the next nineteen point six minutes or face unacceptable losses."

"This only makes the situation more urgent," Prime replies, his fingers still lingering lightly on Jim's elbow. "We cannot allow him to leave."

"Wait a second." Jim scrunches his eyes in confusion. "What are you talking about? We're half a dozen ships with nearly fifty percent not graded for active combat and a Romulan retreat is a _bad_ thing?"

Senekot eyes him coldly. "We have our reasons."

Jim shakes off Prime's touch altogether. "Look, I don't know why you asked me here, but I've got a job to do, so enough bullshit. Either you level with me, or I'm going to page sickbay for an update on my pilot and get my DivCO back in one piece. Oh, that's only after I figure out which evacuation scenario will result in the least loss of life here, and make that a reality."

Sarek arches one silvered eyebrow at him.

"I told you he would not simply bow to your authority," Prime announces, voice filled with restrained humor.

The three Vulcans exchange loaded glances while Taylor's mouth works in a way that suggests he's desperately trying to think of a contribution but doesn't want to interrupt. It's all Jim can do to avoid tapping his foot with impatience, his lips pressed together unhappily as he waits for a verdict when he doesn't even know the stakes. He's very conscious of the encrypted frequency and the limited amount of time they have to implement any intelligence Spock gains from their Romulan hostage. The thought of having Spock subject himself to that experience only to find it becomes pointless makes Jim grind his teeth.

Finally, Senekot frowns and then blanks his face entirely before speaking. "The signal you intercepted is directed through the rift at an alternate reality."

Jim blinks. "Okay."

"After learning of my existence, Nero is attempting to ascertain if I am a unique entity," Prime steps in. "He has employed this technique on three separate occasions that we are aware of; with each incidence designed to create a stable wormhole that facilitates the use of transporter technology. Although the repercussions of his success would be catastrophic, the theory upon which the technology is based and the drive required to implement it is truly remarkable. Nero has a peculiar brand of logic that all his own; one that makes him eminently predictable."

"One could hardly call it logic," Senekot objects.

Prime raises his eyes, fairly radiating confidence. "Although foreign to many Vulcans, the convoluted nature of the logic of a person's heart is nonetheless quite predictable. Emotion has its own rules and constraints; perhaps irrational to those so insulated from their own, but quite transparent to those who have experienced them fully."

"Then why is he searching for you?" Jim interjects, drawing the frowning attention of the other two Vulcans and feeling like he's the only person in the room who understands what Prime is trying to say. "If he'll risk losing ground just to transmit this signal through the closest rift that pops into existence, why is he looking for _you?_ "

Prime turns all his calm certainty Jim's way. "Because he knows that one version of me holds that which is most dear to him."

"Revenge?"

"No, Jim," he shakes his head slowly. "His heart's desire; a chance for redemption."

Jim massages the bridge of his nose. "You said he's trying to make a wormhole. You said transporters. He's trying to _beam someone_ from one universe to another? I'm no Engineer, but isn't that a little far fetched?"

"Nero lost a whole world, his whole life, along with the one thing he valued more than his own existence. He will stop at nothing, discount all risk, all repercussions, if it offers the slightest hope of regaining that, even in part." Although Prime's gaze rests lightly on everyone present, Jim knows the words are meant for him. "He cannot be allowed to succeed in this. The cost to others is too great a price for one man's grief."

"What are you to Nero?" Jim demands, brain working overtime to connect the dots. "I know you couldn't save Romulus, I know he blames you, but why is he looking for an alternate alternate you," he stumbles over the words and the concepts, "when there are at least two of you right here, in this universe?"

Prime seems to choose his words carefully. "My younger counterpart cannot assist and Nero is only newly aware of my existence. Spock's inability and my own unknown background have forced him to continue searching for the ideal alternate in the event that I am not the one."

"Are you?" Jim pins him with narrowed eyes. "The one?"

"I am." Prime looks suddenly sad.

"Candidate for what, exactly?" Jim patience is slipping away with each passing second.

"The _Fal-tor-pan_ he wishes to perform on the innocent Romulan girl who, in my universe, became his wife."

All the Vulcans fall immediately and intensely silent at Prime's words. Harris and Taylor exchange anxious glances, and Jim's temper goes nuclear.

"Why is everyone missing the damn point? I don't even know what the hell a _fal-tor-pan_ is, but I vote no." Jim grasps at air with frustrated hands. "We know what the signal’s purpose is, but has anyone considered what will happen to Aspera and everyone in the area if Nero succeeds in blasting the existing temporal rift even wider? Am I the only one worried about getting chewed up and spat out into an alternate universe? All we need is the exact frequency and we can ..." he falls silent as his comm chirps.

 _Alpha nine, zero point six, lambda four point two, Jim,_ McCoy says hurriedly. _With oscillations on both bands at point zero two and point one. Copy?_

"Loud and clear," he acknowledges. "Get the hell out of there and bring our new friend. We've got work to do. Kirk out."

"Jim ..." Prime begins cautiously.

"Captain Taylor," Jim redirects, putting his back to the rest of them. "Permission to sabotage that signal before it's too late?"

Taylor waits for the terse nods from Sarek and Senekot before agreeing. "Permission granted, Lieutenant."

Frustrated beyond belief, Jim turns on his heel and sweeps out of the ready room, hands balled to fists at his sides, a "fuck's sake!" whispered through clenched teeth as he makes the relative privacy of the turbolift. The verbal lapse makes him flush even harder when he realises Prime has trailed him so closely that he hasn't noticed until he turns. They stare at each across the small space.

"Why are you following me?" Jim demands.

"Because I cannot allow you to attempt this alone," the elderly Vulcan replies simply.

"How could you _possibly_ know what I..."

"Jim," he interrupts. "I served with your alternate self for decades and knew him longer. There is very little about the workings of your mind that is unknown to me."

"I am not who you think I am," he counters, bunching the EVA suit over his own chest with an angry fist. "You've been stalking me my whole life, haven't you? Behind the scenes? Pretending like you know me, like there's something between us? Well, let me tell you something; whatever feelings of friendship I have towards you, whatever comfort I took from your mentorship back in Iowa, it's not real." Jim pauses to swallow his heart, which is racing in his throat. "You manufactured it, got inside my mind, used my vulnerabilities against me to create a connection that I never needed, one that would never have existed in this universe."

He's not yelling, he's too furious for that. Right up until this moment, he could swear he's never reexamined his relationship with Spock's alternate in light of his true identity. Suddenly, with stims in his bloodstream and his heart full of guilt over his DivCO, he defaults to the system he knows best; when in doubt, push away that which seems too close.

Prime's expression flickers minutely, too fast to identify the emotions present. "By now you have deduced that the only way to disrupt the signal integrity is to introduce a tachyon burst to the subspace regions surrounding the temporal rift, thus closing it. Given the risks inherent in such a maneuver, you have doubtless decided to implement your plan without assistance." Prime's eyes harden even as his lips form the slightest of fond smiles. "I will not permit you to endanger yourself in this manner."

Jim steps up, eyes fierce, pulse pounding behind his eyes. "You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do," he whispers tightly. "You're not my commanding officer, you're _nothing_ to me."

"I am saddened to hear you say that, old friend," Prime says gruffly, eyes suspiciously bright. "I fear you will never forgive me for what comes next."

"What are you talking ..."

Prime's fingers and thumb close around the junction of his neck and shoulder and Jim slides instantly into blackness.

 

 


	31. chapter 5.7

When Jim comes around, it's to a view of the turbolift floor and the rubberized kick panel that graces the bottom six inches of the wall. A tech is trying to hail him through the intercom, the voice becoming more and more urgent. He takes this to mean that he's been out for just long enough to cause concern. With a wince and a deep breath of preparation, he gets his arms under him and pushes to his hands and knees.

"This is Kirk, stand down," he manages, finger mashed into the intercom. "Just a glitch, no assistance required."

Saying that, he hopes it's true, because as he makes it to his feet he can see the cover has been ripped away from the controls. There's a dull ache perched at the intersection of his neck and shoulder, but it's already fading, along with the slight inability to focus his eyes. He's heard about Vulcan nerve pinches but hasn't been on the receiving end of one until now. Diligently, he frowns, forcing his eyes to focus on the mess of wires and control cards Prime has left him. A quick assessment shows him how easy it is to restore power; Prime obviously didn't mean to trap him here, just delay him.

With that realization comes a flood of memory and he swears, twisting wires together with less than his usual finesse. The old bastard might not be his Spock, might be hundreds of years older, but if there's one thing Jim will bet on, it's that any given Spock will martyr himself on the altar of personal responsibility given half a chance. Nero is blasting a world apart looking for _him_ , which leaves very little doubt in Jim's mind where Prime has gone or what he intends to do.

With a flash and a puff of smoke, his hasty repair job yields results and the younger Spock enters the turbolift so wrapped in his own thoughts that it's clear he doesn't notice Jim until he's stepped inside. He tenses, poised for flight, his face smudged with grime from the cave and his hair rain-wet.

"No," Jim stops him from leaving by grabbing a sleeve. "Wait a minute." The doors slide closed with a muted hiss and Jim can't help the way he holds on. "God, I'm so sorry," he whispers, thinking of what Spock has just done. "I wish I'd never thought of it, I ..."

Spock's exhales, a short puff of breath, the slightest hint of sound; a confession.

"Anything you want," Jim promises him, and means it. God, how he means it. On the tip of his tongue, at the edges of his perception, he can feel the points where Spock exists. He catches flashes of it, glimpses and hints of turmoil through the tenuous connection he hasn't been bold enough to ask about.

Spock is angry, he's ashamed, he's a little out of control. He opens his mouth, then has to swallow. Wordlessly, he reaches out with one hand, the pattern sending Jim right back into the cave, headlong into thoughts of dominance and violation. He can't help it, he flinches. The thought of having someone else in his mind, of having Spock there so soon after what he's just done, it turns his stomach. Years of hard, bitter memories surge to the fore, rising like the gorge in his throat, and he can only shake his head mutely and angle his face away.

Spock's facade is in tatters. He stares, visibly shocked by such a reaction.

Jim forces himself to breathe, to relax and place a hand back on Spock's EVA suit even though his skin crawls. He's walking the very fine line between what he wants and what he can't possibly handle. "I wouldn't leave you now unless I had to," he says weakly, sliding his palm up to Spock's shoulder and wishing he had the time to explain. "You can feel that, can't you? Feel that I'm telling the truth?"

"Yes," Spock nods, then clears his throat softly. “Yes, I can.”

"Okay." Jim steps away. "So find it in your heart to forgive me, because I can't stand the thought of you in my head right now."

With a press of his thumb against Spock's lips and a quick step backward, Jim exits the lift, spins on his heel and sets off down the corridor at a dead run. He can't know that all his fear and all his revulsion are transferred in that fleeting touch, consolidating leaden and ugly in the pit of Spock's stomach.

Perhaps, if he'd had an inkling of the events set in motion by that emotional transference, Jim might have made the time for an explanation. Instead, the automatic doors allow Spock five seconds to watch him disappear.

  
-:-

  
Jim collides with someone as he rounds the corner into the main hangar. Clutching at the other man's EVA suit for balance, he reads the name tag, _Kensington Watson, MD_. A surprised glance up at the young man's face confirms it.

"Kenny!"

"Lieutenant Kirk," the younger man smiles, looking ruffled and tired but obviously buoyed by the adrenaline rush of survival. "Glad to see you in one piece, sir."

"Right back at you," Jim laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. "What's your status?"

Kenny glances down at himself, as though considering it for the first time. "A few bruises and sleep deprivation aside, I'm fine."

Jim flips him around with one hand and propels them both towards the nearest shuttle. "Good. Stim yourself and find me someone to fly this thing; we might actually need you to be a doctor this time. Also, get Engineer Scott down here, and tell him to bring a torpedo."

"Aye, sir." Kenny turns on his heel and jogs over to the main Ops board, shouting to draw the young tech's attention.

Jim grabs the rail and vaults into the shuttle over the runner, flipping the first few standby switches to power up the impulse engines. "Computer, state your designation."

 _Echo Delta one oh one._

The early serial number makes him take a second look at the interior, and sure enough, it's the muted beige of one of the earliest ED medevac shuttles still in operation. It should make him want another shuttle, and there's still time to skip out and find a newer one, but Jim just grins. He knows this shuttle, never flown in it before, but the crew's rhyming slang means it's known as the _Obi-wan_. It's a Beta rotation ship with a reputation for getting out of tight spots. He likes old movies and he likes this ship.

"Voiceprint acknowledge, Lieutenant Kirk, serial number SC937 dash 0176CEC."

 _Lieutenant Kirk, James T., acting Divisional Commander, authority acknowledged._

"Track last launched vessel and vector. Log egress request and flight plan as follows." Jim's fingers fly over the navcomp, laying in a course that will slingshot them around Aspera's smaller moon, hopefully hiding them from Romulan attention for just long enough to put him where he's certain Prime has gone; the focal point for Nero's interdimensional signal.

 _Working._

He turns away from the cockpit and begins preflight, visually confirming all the green lights on the board, all their Medic and Point supplies, their fuel store and taking a quick jog around the outside to inspect the hull. The whole thing takes less than five minutes. It's cursory and there could still be a hundred deadly things wrong with the _Obi-wan_ , but he doesn't have time for more.

Kenny comes running up with a familiar face in tow, just as Scotty comes scowling and muttering into the hangar, ginger hair white with dust, his face pink from the exertion of running.

"Han," Jim smiles, clasping her forearm to haul her into the ship. "You have the conn."

"Aye, sir," Hannity smiles, vaulting over the cockpit divide to land neatly in the pilot's seat.

"Scotty, where's my torpedo?"

"The lads are bringing it," the engineer waves over his shoulder at four techs clustered around the armoury. "But an Echo Delta shuttle isn't equipped to fire a torpedo," he flails. "What are you planning to do? Shove it out the door and hope for the best?"

"Not quite," he grins. "But I am going to need you to prove just how good you are with a transporter."

"Green light," Hannity calls. "We're clear for launch."

"Over there," Jim points the techs towards the shuttle's tiny transporter pad. "Strap it down, will you? I don't want it in my lap." He turns to Scotty, face suddenly intent. "If we pull the warhead and reconfigure the photon signature to a frequency of the same amplitude but inverted phase and deliver a tachyon burst from the torp's deflector net, can we shut down the signal?"

Scotty's eyes widen as he does the calculations. "You're talking about a backyard pulse wave torpedo. Those things have never worked!"

"What's our alternative?" he demands. "Fly right into the damn rift and _then_ create a tachyon eddy? Will it even be enough without some kind of phase cancellation?"

"Well no, probably not," Scotty admits, leaping back as Hannity starts taxiing ED101 to the slingshot, forcing him to jog along side and Jim to lean out dangerously on the runner to continue their conversation. "But I have an idea."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"If you recalibrate the targeting computer to a parametric frequency with the same carrier band as Nero's own signal, you don't need to find the antiphase," he puffs, having to run properly now that the shuttle is picking up speed. "You can use his own signal against him to deliver the tachyon burst at exactly the right point."

"Scotty," Jim grins wildly, "you're a genius! When I get back, I'm promoting you to captain of everything."

The engineer staggers to a breathless halt, hands on his hips to watch the medevac shuttle flung out into the deteriorating front of the battle for Aspera. "I'll hold you to that!" he yells after them pointlessly, unable to wipe the smile from his face as he turns to make his way to the transporter room.

  
-:-

  
"What are we doing, Jim?" Hannity asks, never taking her eyes off the screen.

He lifts his head from the delicate work he and Kenny are performing on the torpedo's innards. "Saving a planet, stopping a temporal catastrophe, rescuing a friend and annoying Nero."

"Sounds good."

"Thought you'd like it."

"Twenty seconds to weapons range."

"Acknowledged."

He turns back to the torpedo and carefully slides the modified chip into place, leaving Kenny's steady surgeon's hands to form the final connections with the laser scalpel. The young doctor's concentration is intense, beads of perspiration running down into his eyes, forcing him to pause and blink them away.

"You okay?" Jim asks.

"It's the stims," Kenny replies, keeping his eyes on the business end of the scalpel. "Takes a lot of concentration to keep my hands from shaking."

Jim just nods, knowing how that feels. The initial burn of the drugs in his own system are beginning to wear off, leaving a dull, artificial sense of urgency pooled in the centre of his chest. It feels like the beginning of a heart attack, his body fighting against it for the respite it desperately craves, but then Jim's body has never responded well to medications.

"Got it," Kenny sighs, pulling his hands away to shake out the tension.

Jim slides the cover home and polarises the deflector net. He can feel the push on his bare hands as it hums to life.

"They've painted us," Hannity announces tightly. "Strap in."

Both men scramble for their harnesses, slamming the first and most crucial lap buckle home just as Hannity is forced to evade a cluster bomb thrown their way. Two more follow and Jim has to hug his knees to stop from being thrown around, unable to secure his shoulder straps in the poor excuse for internal gravity dampening. It was one thing he hadn't considered about a 100 series ED shuttle.

"Ugh," he groans as Hannity straightens them out under the cover of protective fire from the _Tat'sar_. "I think I'm going to puke."

"Nothing new there," Han jokes grimly, pouring on as much speed as she can while there are friendly ships to keep the Romulan fire to a minimum.

"That was one time," Jim protests, more out of habit than anything else, "and it wasn't my fault."

"We warned you Chekov flies like an Andorian bull in atmo."

"I thought you were joking," he insists, managing to get himself fully strapped in before the next sharp dive, but only just.

"Sir, detecting a friendly vessel dead ahead on the predicted vector," Hannity reports, all joking suddenly aside. "Reads Vulcan, minimal offensive capability, brilliant shields though. She's awfully close to the rift."

Jim calls up forward scanners on the Point screen, splaying and dragging his fingers to magnify the image. A small white and blue craft is hurtling towards the rift at an impressive pace, its hardy shields splashed with Romulan energy weapons. "Hailing frequencies," he demands.

After a moment, Hannity makes an apologetic shrug. "No response."

Jim frowns, forced to rethink his strategy.

"Shields at sixty," she informs them, even as the hardy old shuttle is rocked by another blast. "Fifteen seconds to rift interference."

Jim knows Prime has to be on that little Vulcan ship. No other Vulcan would be flying for a temporal anomaly in defiance of all apparent logic. What he needs is a way to launch the torpedo and then get Prime and the _Obi-wan_ out of harm's way before it detonates. There's been no time to do the math, but it stands to reason that collapsing a temporal rift is going to be messy. The display counts down the kilometers with frightening speed and his brain just shuts down. Whether it's the impossibility of the situation or something more physical, he can't tell. All he knows is they're flying straight into Prime's personal suicide pact and he can't think of a way to control the situation.

In desperation, he thumbs his comm. "Scotty?"

 _Aye sir, I see the problem._ The engineer replies promptly, sounding preoccupied.

Jim grits his teeth, wishing he could make himself believe that Vulcan bullshit about the good of the many. "I need another solution, Scotty. This one's not acceptable."

 _I don't know what to tell you. Whoever's flying that thing must have a death wish. There's no way out of a flight plan like that."_

"Find a damn way!" Jim yells suddenly, surprising himself with his own vehemence. Prime is a manipulative, secretive son of a bitch, but he was also instrumental in paving the way for a young Jim Kirk to realize there might be something better out there, beyond the limited scope of his experience. Motivation aside, it's fair to say Jim's not sure where he'd be today without Prime, or even if he'd be here at all. _This one thing,_ he thinks to himself grimly, _then we're even._

"Five seconds to target."

"Sir," Kenny begins anxiously, glancing from the torpedo to Jim's face with some urgency.

"Scotty, give me something," he demands.

 _You're not going to like it,_ the engineer promises dourly.

"I'll like it better than the alternative, which is nothing," he promises.

 _Okay, well, this might be easier if you all close your eyes._

Hannity turns to glare at Jim in a way that says this is all his fault. "What the _shit_ , Jim?"

"Scotty!" Jim demands over the comm, feeling the first stirrings of dread in the pit of his stomach, knowing that forcing the brilliant engineer to think outside the box often yields rather dramatic results.

 _Now would be a good time to take a deep breath and hold it._

  
-:-

  
Commander Spock is due in sickbay; directive from Doctor McCoy.

The fact that he does not comply can be attributed to a number of factors, one of which is a chance encounter with his father on his way to decontamination. The surprise brings him up just short of a stumble. Sarek comes to a more graceful halt, hands concealed in long sleeves. Aware that his own are far from steady, Spock confines them in the small of his back, irrationally wondering if his father can sense the crime he has committed. Perhaps there is a lingering taint from the Romulan's unwilling mind within his own tumultuous thoughts. Their father-son bond has never been particularly strong, but Spock feels as though his ethical violation supersedes any and all barriers he might erect. He cannot imagine ever being free of it.

"Spock."

"Father."

Sarek shifts minutely, betraying a small amount of his uncertainty. "I would not delay you on your way to the Bridge."

"I am, in fact, en route to sickbay," Spock corrects him.

"You are injured?" There may perhaps be the slightest trace of concern evident in his father's tone.

"It is merely protocol."

Sarek nods, but his eyes flick away, hiding momentarily, before returning as composed as ever to Spock's face. "That is well. The work you do is dangerous, the statistical likelihood of serious injury quite high. I believe the average age of a human Point is approximately forty two point eight years; barely adult in Vulcan terms."

"I am not a child."

"No," Sarek acknowledges. "You are not."

Feeling vastly under-prepared for any kind of conversation with his sole remaining parent, Spock tilts his head politely. "Is there some way in which I may assist you?"

Sarek waves his offer aside with one palm. "I seek return transport to the Vulcan fleet, but it is hardly imperative in light of the _Stalwart's_ operational necessity. I am content to await a more appropriate time when the arrangements can be made without inconvenience or undue risk to your crew."

Spock lifts an eyebrow. "You beamed aboard during a battle?"

"I was conveyed in a small diplomatic shuttle, heavily shielded and piloted by someone with ample experience. The journey constituted an acceptable risk."

"My counterpart served as pilot," Spock infers, displaying the intuitive leaps of logic that always confused his Vulcan peers. "Why not return together?"

"It is not possible. Prime has commandeered the vessel for the purpose of sabotaging Nero's subspace transmitter, or alternatively collapsing the temporal rift."

With sick certainty, Spock takes an involuntary step forward. "When did he depart?"

"Less than four point six minutes prior to your arrival."

Spock whirls to the nearest terminal. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Kirk, James T."

 _Lieutenant Kirk is not on board._

Barely managing to contain the urge to smash the terminal with his bare fist, Spock doubles back the way he came, barely aware that his father follows, abandoning diplomatic dignity in favour of pursuing his youngest son at speed.

  
-:-

  
As the _Obi-wan_ blinks out of existence in a hail of silver sparks Jim has a bare handful of seconds to realize how insane that is before his neurons dematerialize. They slam back into real space and the proximity alarms screech to life. Jim has an eyeful of hull through the cockpit and Hannity's voice reaches him, filled with terror.

"Holy son of a ..."

 _Blink._

This time, when they come back, everything seems to have gone to pieces. The deck is buckled and checkered with unfamiliar white, the walls set with doors that weren't there, conduits and circuitry steaming and sparking. He's been purged from the transporter buffer into a nightmare world of incomplete model sets and twisted dioramas. The air is filled with the high-pitched screech of venting atmosphere, lights flickering. He struggles with his harness, fighting to undo the buckles, but they've fused right into the bench seat ... which is now apparently part of a closet.

"What the fu ..."

 _Blink._

  
-:-

  
In the _Stalwart's_ main hangar bay, Spock watches ED101 and the futuristic Vulcan shuttle blur, impact and become one object, magnified in all its twisted glory on the crisp viewscreen. He turns to the transporter console on his left, eyes dark and jaw set. "Mister Scott, you _will_ explain."

"Jim asked me for an alternative and you're looking at it," the engineer waves a hand at the misshapen lump on the viewer, now tumbling unpowered.

Spock's eyes snap back, tracking the amalgamated vessel's haphazard path through the very fringes of the rift. "In attempting such a maneuver, you have undoubtedly assured their deaths."

"I'm not daft!" He bristles. "I beamed them out seconds after. Only thing left aboard that mess is the torpedo Jim wanted. They're all safe and sound."

"Where?" Spock demands.

"On board the _Narada_ ," Scotty says proudly.

Spock appears vastly underwhelmed by this demonstration of transporter expertise. "Am I to understand that you have beamed the Acting Divisional Commander, a Pilot, a Medic and a Vulcan of considerable standing aboard Nero's flagship?"

"Well, when you say it like that, it doesn't sound quite so good," Scotty's face falls. "But I only had seconds, sir, seconds to find somewhere close enough to put them!"

Spock takes a step forward menacingly. "You will beam them back aboard the _Stalwart_ immediately."

"I ..."

A scintillating explosion rocks the old Constitution Class ship, sending power fluctuations cascading through the boards as Jim's special torpedo detonates within the temporal rift. Sparks fly and klaxons sound, a panicked counterpoint to Spock's icy expression.

Scotty swallows. "Transporters offline. I'll never get a lock on their transponders with all this interference!"

"I want their last known location," he says, the words clipped and very precise. "Restore power, Mr. Scott."

Scotty is already engrossed in his instrumentation, suddenly perspiring despite the chill in the hangar. "Aye sir, I'm on it."

  
-:-

  
"... ucking fuck!" Jim finishes angrily as his feet hit the ground at an odd angle and he's forced to stagger in order to remain upright. Hannity and Kenny aren't so lucky, collapsing to the polished black deck in a loud tangle of limbs and an 'oof.' From over their flailing arms and legs, Prime raises an eyebrow at his profanity.

"I would call this a pleasant surprise," the old Vulcan says with all the appearance of perfect calm, "except that I have gone to great lengths to avoid this very situation."

"What?" he asks, wiping the back of one sleeve across his face as he struggles for composure. " _Not_ dying?"

"No Jim; risking Romulan capture."

Blinking at their surroundings, Jim narrows his eyes, finding focus in the black and green architecture. Instantly galvanized, he whips his phaser out, safety off and feet braced. "Where the hell are we?"

Prime glances around, performing a slow pirouette that Jim finds hauntingly familiar. "Judging by the subsonic frequency of the impulse engines, the curvature of the internal hull and the position of Nero's fleet at the time of dematerialization, I would have to say that we are aboard the _Narada_."

Jim licks his lips and adjusts his grip on the phaser. "Bullshit."

Prime just looks at him pointedly.

  
-:-

  
"Coordinates obtained," Scotty announces confidently. "I have limited range, Commander. I'm not picking up their transponders."

Spock nods briskly and sets off for the nearest transporter pad. "Then you will beam me to their last known location instead."

"But if the _Narada_ has moved even so much as a meter..."

"I am aware of the risks, Mr. Scott."

Out of nowhere, McCoy appears, off-balance under the unfamiliar load of Starfleet small arms. "You're going to need some help."

Spock doesn't argue, just nods and relieves the doctor of two phasers.

Sarek steps into Spock's path, catching him mid-stride. "You intend to retrieve them," he says, and it is not a question.

"Of course," Spock agrees, perhaps a little tightly, but certainly not emotionally.

"Spock," Sarek says softly, for his ears only. "You are all that I have left."

"Father," he gives his head a slight shake.

"You underestimate my regard."

Spock steps neatly around him. "Perhaps," he allows. "However, I do not currently possess the time to explore that possibility." He makes the leap onto the pad, disdaining the steps all together. He snaps his visor down, hiding his face and his fear behind its polarized curve. The very last second before he gives the word, he yields to the impulse to look at his father and finds him standing straight, one hand raised, not in the _ta'al_ but in a simple human gesture of farewell and benediction.

"Energize."

With a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, Spock braces himself for the consequences of perhaps the most illogical decision of his career. There is a pause that seems a split second longer than usual, then the dark, dank interior of Nero's flagship coalesces around them.

Almost instantly, the comms blare to life.

 _EPAS away team, this is Ops, do you read, over? Commander, your mission is not authorized, do you acknowledge? Commander Spock? Sir, this is Gaila, please explain what the hell you're doing on the Narada, because the Vulcans are about two seconds away from ..._

Spock grabs hold of his earbuds and pops them firmly from the membranous hood, tossing them aside. He fields a wide-eyed look from McCoy.

"Never thought I'd see the day," the doctor drawls, but his eyes are warm with approval.

Back on the _Stalwart_ , a full complement of Security personnel stampede into the hangar bay, only seconds late. Scotty and the other techs raise their hands in the universal gesture for surrender. Sarek merely clasps his together calmly, unruffled.

Scotty turns to the Vulcan Ambassador with a huge grin on his face. "This ship just got exciting!"

  
-:-

  
"Attempting further sabotage of Nero's operations is not logical," Prime says even as he deftly rewires the circuitry Jim has haphazardly revealed. "If what you say is true, then the immediate threat to temporal stability has been neutralized. We should seek immediate evacuation from the _Narada_."

"And how much future tech has Nero plucked out of space since he got here?" Jim wants to know, buried up to his armpit in the wall below where Prime is working, fingers fumbling for the power cable he _knows_ will be there somewhere. Everything needs power. "In fact, screw the tech, what about the people?"

Kenny takes a moment from disassembling his communicator to nod emphatically. "I saw the _Narada_ take at least two escape pods intact, and that was just while I was piloting that Romulan bird. There was an awful lot of flotsam and jetsam bleeding through; there might have been others."

Jim's eyes flick back up to Prime. "You can't tell me he's got their best interests at heart."

Prime gives a slightly un-Vulcan-like sigh. "The existence of living beings aboard those pods is pure conjecture. Interdimensional travel is fraught with uncertainty and danger. There is no telling how many, if any, have survived the journey."

"Oh, well in that case, fuck 'em," Jim says blandly just as he manages to insert the power cable into the jury-rigged matrix Prime has created. The door to the storage compartment depressurizes with a muted hiss. "You can stay here if you want," he adds, directing his words at both of them, even if his eyes stay locked with Prime's, "but I'm going to take a look."

Kenny and Hannity move to follow, but Prime cuts them off. "It is imperative that we avoid becoming separated."

"We _do_ only have the one boosted transponder," Kenny admits, waggling the hand that contains his hard work.

"I'm not comfortable leaving someone behind," Hannity seconds.

Jim squares up to the elderly Vulcan, wondering if having Spock as his DivCO is the reason that ordering the alternate version around feels so unnatural. "Guess you're coming with us, then."

Prime stares him down, his hooded eyes glittering in the eerie green light. "I _guess_ you are correct."

"Welcome to EPAS," he smirks, turning his back to risk a glance down the corridor, checking for threats.

A vice-like Vulcan grip takes him by the shoulder and backs him into the wall in one swift show of inhuman strength. A leathery hand finds the side of his face, hot fingers digging into the skin. "I'm sorry, old friend," Prime rasps.

"Don't you dare!"

A world that never was explodes behind Jim's eyes.

  
-:-

  
The first thing Jim registers when he blinks his way back to consciousness is the unbelievable migraine that's taken up residence right behind the bridge of his nose. It's not helped at all by the wailing of klaxons throughout the _Narada_. The second thing he notices is young Spock pinning Prime to the wall by his throat and looking pissed in a scarily Vulcan way. Kenny and Hannity have been nerve-pinched into oblivion, out cold on the deck.

"What happened?"

"You have regained consciousness," Spock observes, his eyes never wavering from those of his counterpart.

"No shit." Jim forces himself up with his hands until he's sitting against the wall, legs flung out awkwardly. "Which one of you nerve pinched my damn crew?"

McCoy steps into Jim's line of sight, clearly torn between attending to him or the unconscious people first. Jim waves him off and the exasperated doctor rolls his eyes before turning his back.

"If you will allow me to explain..." Prime begins.

"No," says Spock at the same time as Jim says, "yes." The two look at each other and then Spock turns back to Prime. "Yes," he amends, looking blatantly unimpressed.

Prime's eyes flick to the fingers closed lightly around his larynx. "You could facilitate our conversation by releasing me."

"No."

"Spock, let him go."

"What manner of attack did you perpetrate on the mind of Lieutenant Kirk?" Spock demands, ignoring Jim completely. He sounds coldly furious.

Prime blinks, looking quite surprised for a Vulcan. "I assure you, it was no attack. However, I do regret the circumstances that forced me to initiate such an intimate contact without his consent."

Spock's fingers tighten fractionally, seemingly of their own accord. "Your regret means nothing to me."

Prime swallows awkwardly and raises his hands slightly, palms outwards in supplication. "I have been and always will be, his friend." The old Vulcan seeks Jim's eyes over Spock's shoulder. "Is that not so?"

The words trigger some kind of cacophony of memory in Kirk's head, he screws his eyes shut, but that does nothing to halt the endless parade of images, sounds and events that regurgitate themselves out of his subconscious and into the present moment. A thousand Spocks over a thousand days turn to him wearing Starfleet science blues and say, "Captain?"

Jim snaps out of it, gasping, to find Spock has abandoned Prime to crouch before him, hot hands framing his face, a concerned furrow between up-swept brows.

"No way," Jim breathes. Spock's fingers shift against his skin and those expressive lips that nobody else seems to notice press together in concern. "Spock," Jim says, panicked, pushing him away, "everyone needs keep out of my goddamn head!"

Three Romulans burst through the door and open fire, showering the room in green energy. The first bolt strikes Prime in the chest, the second in the abdomen, the third is headed for Jim, at least until Spock rolls into its path. The impact throws the Commander into the bulkhead with Jim like the meat in a sandwich, crushing the breath from him. Dazed, winded and still disorientated, Jim looks up just in time to see the butt of the disruptor before it strikes him between the eyes.

  
-:-

  
McCoy rematerializes aboard the _Stalwart_ drenched in a cold sweat. Hannity is still out cold, but Kenny slowly staggers to his feet, hand still pressed to his emergency beacon. McCoy doesn't hesitate before grabbing the junior medic by the shirtfront with both hands. "What have you done, man? Our people are injured back there, or worse!"

Kensington brings his hands up between them and slaps McCoy's grip aside. "Standard operating procedure," he shouts back. "We were outgunned and probably outnumbered. They would have shot Hannity like a dog and she'd never even have known! You're the CMO; your responsibility is to the fleet as a whole, not just to your own shuttle crew!"

"What is this? Cowardice?" McCoy growls darkly.

"No, it's logic," Kenny counters, face set with the determination of someone who wholeheartedly believes in the righteousness of his decision. "It's also in the manual, doctor. You might not thank me for saving your life, but the many staff and saves you're going to be able to treat definitely will. If the DivCO makes it out of there alive he'll commend me, not discipline me, and you know it."

"Damn the manual!" McCoy rages, "and damn this infectious Vulcan logic! We're human beings, Kensington. The goddamn service motto is _leave no soul behind,_ but you're okay with leaving two of our best Points and a geriatric Vulcan taking Romulan fire?" He gives the younger man a rough shove, oblivious to Scotty's wide-eyed observation. "That sits just fine with you, does it?"

"Of course it doesn't!" Kenny shoves McCoy right back, palms to the center of his chest, sending him stumbling across the transporter pad. "But hanging around to die along with them serves no purpose! I took the same oath that you did, remember? Sometimes doing no harm means knowing when to give in to the odds!"

McCoy drops him with one vicious jab to the point of his chin. Kenny hits the deck with a dull, fleshy thud and doesn't get up. From the front row of the small crowd that has gathered to witness the altercation, Scotty gulps audibly. McCoy's furious eyes flick up as he shakes out his aching fist.

"I'm going to have to call Security?" Scotty tells him like it's a question.

"Ah, hell."

  
-:-

  
Sounds wash over him like the ebb and flow of waves on a beach; a quiet susurrus of sound with an undercurrent of urgency. He floats on it, drifting aimlessly, timeless and alone, but not alone. Forever touching but untouched ...

His eyes flicker open, tacky and sticking together. He's in a dark cell, back wedged up against something warm, but the sound isn't coming from behind him.

"Jim," the insistent whisper comes again.

Against the gloom, through the tunnel vision, he can barely make out the slumped form of Prime in the opposite corner. Without hesitation, he pushes himself up onto one elbow and valiantly fights the urge to throw up. The room pitches unhelpfully around him and his ears ring so loudly he can only see Prime's lips moving; can't make out the words anymore. Ignoring his body's demand that he give up and get horizontal again, he drags himself over to the other side of the room, fists his hand in Prime's robes for leverage and feels confused when they come away wet. Moving so that the single beam of light strikes his palm, he's still not sure why it's green.

"Jim," the quiet voice insists. "Forgive me."

"For what?" he wonders, certain that this gentle person could have done nothing in his life worth apologizing for. Spock would never harm anyone intentionally, Spock was a good person, Spock was...when had Prime truly become Spock in his mind?

Jim blinks and raises one green, sticky hand to the bridge of his nose. "My head ..."

"It will fade in time," the old Vulcan assures him. "You must wake Spock. You must escape." He pauses to cough wretchedly. "You are more important now, than ever. That which I have given you cannot fall into the wrong hands." Dark eyes burn with purpose in his pale, lined face. "Promise me, Jim."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispers, lips numb as though flush with the first hit of alcohol. "I don't ..."

"You must go."

"Go where?"

"Wake Spock."

Jim wipes the gunk out of his eyes and stares at his hand which is red now, too. "But you're already awake."

Thin lips quirk into a pained smile. "I am not your Spock, nor you my Jim."

"Could've been, though."

Jim watches moisture gather at the corners of Prime's eyes and wonders whether he's hallucinating. Or high. Yeah, maybe high. The old Vulcan reaches out and gives him a weak shove towards the opposite side of the room. "Go," he says. "You have very little time."

Jim turns his head, wobbly on his neck like one of those stupid dashboard ornaments people with RVs seem to like so much. Fuck, he hopes he never becomes people who like RVs, he has too much to live for. Then he notices the warmth when he woke had to have been Spock's body, and that there is a huge, blackened mess scorched into the place where one of his shoulders used to be.

"Shit," Jim says with feeling, and proceeds to flail his way back to where he'd started.

Spock's body is too cold, and fucking heavy. He rolls it over anyway, with little finesse but quite a lot of determination. His head lolls against the deck, arms flopping limply.

Jim glances back at Prime. "He's asleep."

"Wake him."

"With a kiss?" Jim wonders, because he's pretty sure that's how the story goes.

"Strike him firmly across the face."

"Oh, I remember."

Jim doesn't question it, just takes an open palm to Spock's cheek hard enough that it echoes off the walls. One doesn't do it, so he serves up another, is preparing the third when Spock's eyes flicker open then narrow in quickly controlled pain.

"Jim."

"Sorry, the other Spock told me to," he says and shrugs. "I always do what you say."

Spock rolls onto his good side and blanches further. "That is inaccurate; also you are concussed."

Jim nods. "Or on the good drugs."

Spock's eyes seek out the other Vulcan across the room and something charged and hostile passes silently between them. "You are still not who you say you are."

Prime gurgles in what may have been an attempt at a laugh. "Who amongst us is?"

"Will there be enough time for the truth?" Spock persists, with that look he gets when he's figured out some particularly difficult puzzle. "How long do you have?"

"Perhaps long enough," Prime whispers.

Spock pushes to his feet, cradling his injured arm protectively against his chest. "You cannot die here," he says firmly, eyeing the extent of the other Vulcan's injuries.

"You are mistaken," he breathes. "I can die wherever I please."

"I will not allow it." Spock sounds almost fierce.

Prime does smile, then; a gentle quirk of his lips that Jim finds achingly familiar. "With age, you will learn that not everything is mutable." He nods at the pool of green blood that has formed around his crumpled body and then looks back up at Spock. "Send someone for me, if you can do so without unacceptable risk, but you destroy all that I have worked for, all that I hold most dear, if you allow James Kirk to remain in this place."

"You will not survive without medical intervention, and I _will_ have answers."

Prime coughs again and it takes a few moments for him to muster enough breath to speak afterwards. "Death and I are well acquainted. I have no desire to renew our friendship, but neither do I fear it." He blinks heavily, as if exhausted. " _Kaadith_."

Spock takes a deep breath then exhales slowly. "Very well."

"Guard Jim with your life," the old Vulcan mumbles, eyes sliding closed.

Jim uses the wall to push to his feet, staring at the crumpled form at Spock's feet with something akin to horror in his heart. "Is he ...?"

Spock shakes his head. "A Vulcan healing trance," he clarifies, then turns to Jim with new urgency. "Come, we must leave."

"Sure," Jim agrees, allowing Spock to take his hand. "If you can figure out how to open that door, I'm all for it."

Spock comes to a halt in front of it, eyes scanning the hinges and the crude locking mechanism, evidently jury rigged onto the otherwise sophisticated layout. This part of the ship was clearly never meant to hold prisoners and presents significantly lesser obstacle than the secure location they'd initially beamed into. He drops Jim's hand and braces himself, eyes narrowed in concentration. When he moves, it's almost too quick for Jim to follow, concussion or no. The heel of one palm strikes the topmost hinge, while his booted foot connects with the cross bar. The door collapses outwards with a thunderous crash.

Spock steadies himself with his good hand, then uses it to capture Jim's again. "This way."

"Yeah," Jim staggers after him. "I think they probably heard that."

"Undoubtedly," Spock agrees, pausing only to tuck an EPAS transponder into Prime's bloodstained robes. "However, I could think of no other method of opening it."

"You didn't so much open it as demolish it." Jim shakes his head to clear it and immediately realizes it was a mistake. "I think my brain is falling out my ears."

"I shall ensure that does not happen," Spock says in an undertone, yanking on Jim's arm to conceal them in a cross passage just as half a dozen Romulan guards storm by at a dead run.

In the moment's pause, Jim can finally look at the disruptor burn on Spock's shoulder. It's deep and weeping and glinting with bone. Through the hand that still grips his own, he can feel the small tremors coursing through Spock's body. It hits him then, through the haze, that they are seriously in the shit. On the heels of that same revelation comes another observation.

"Holy crap, are we at warp?"

Spock considers this for a moment, head tilted as he catalogues the minutiae in support of Jim's assessment. "I believe we are. Judging by the lack of care with which we were imprisoned and the absence of guards posted, it is safe to assume that the crew have been preoccupied with their retreat. We will not be so fortunate for long." He moves to lead them back into the corridor, but Jim grips his elbow to stop him.

"No, not that way."

Spock gives him a dubious look. "This is a future model Romulan mining vessel, how are you calculating the route?"

"I've been here before, when I was you," Jim says seriously. "Quit arguing; I know you're trying to help but you've got the wrong brain." Jim doesn't give him time to digest that, merely drags him back the way they came, pushing them both into the fastest stagger they can manage, never faltering at an intersection, never hesitating at an access panel, until they're crammed like two sardines in a single escape pod that looks barely space-worthy.

Spock brings his hand down on the eject button just as Romulans appear in the tiny window, cursing and trying to force the door. The airlock irises closed and Jim renews his resolve not to throw up as they are jettisoned at warp speed, slowly bleeding off velocity until they break the sublight barrier and tumble into recognizable space like a cigarette butt thrown from a car window; a speck of life and warmth in the vastness of who the fuck knows where.

Jim gasps a few deep breaths and is not reassured to see Spock leaning into his own webbing, pale and perspiring.

"Over to you."

 


	32. chapter 5.8

"Jim, you must remain conscious," Spock tries for the third time, staring at the top of his Point One's head as it lolls on his shoulders.

They have been adrift in the Romulan escape pod for approximately one point seven hours. The statistical likelihood of the pod being located by someone other than Nero is dwindling with every passing second. Jim's blood has dried crusted in the slight wave of his hair, while Spock's drips thick, slow, and congealing from his lax fingertips onto the floor.

"Jim!"

"What?" his head snaps up, pupils over-dilated even in the low emergency lighting.

"You must not fall asleep."

"No, I know," he nods, eyelids heavy. "I'm concussed."

"Yes," says Spock, holding his gaze. "You must remember."

"Pretty hard to forget," he winces, raising fingertips to his brow and prodding gingerly. The gesture brings turns his head and it is as though he sees Spock's wound for the first time. "Holy shit, we've got to ..."

"We have no first aid equipment," Spock interrupts with weariness born of repetition. "Attending to either of us must wait until our rescue is effected."

"You're losing a lot of blood," he persists. "At least let me bind it."

"With what?"

Jim casts around the spartan interior and scowls, then down at himself. He begins to fumble at the catch of his harness.

"Jim, remain seated."

"Hush."

"It is unwise to move unnecessarily with a head injury."

"I said, hush."

"I order you to remain seated."

Jim shoots him a look full of derision. "Seriously?"

Spock watches helplessly, too drained by exanguination to move, as Jim frees himself and uses the wall to steady the two steps it takes to cross the distance between them. He then unzips his EVA suit and awkwardly pulls off his black overshirt. The suit hangs on his hips as he wobbles left and right, eyes searching for something as his hands ball the shirt into a tight bundle. Finally settling on a loose restraint, he turns back to Spock with apology in his eyes.

"This is probably going to hurt like hell."

"You will become cold without your shirt. Replace it immediately."

"Worst excuse ever," Jim clucks, pressing the offending item of clothing into the wound and lashing it in place with the flexible webbing.

Spock passes out.

  
-:-

  
"Hey."

Spock feels his knee being squeezed through his suit. He wants to open his eyes, but does not seem to have the energy.

"I feel like an asshole for waking you, but I've got a small problem."

He forces himself to blink once, twice and tilt his head towards the sound of Jim's voice, still on the near side of the pod.

"Are you awake?" Jim asks, looking right at him.

"I am."

"Good."

"Jim," Spock says tiredly, burdened by the return of pain. "Your problem?"

"Yeah, so, my eye isn't working."

Spock's heart thrums faster in his side, adrenaline spiking unpleasantly through his body. "You are blind?"

"No, things just aren't where I think they are; one eye only," Jim points to his face and clumsily makes circles around his single pinpoint pupil. "This one's fine."

Spock's jaw clenches against the tide of panic that swamps him. What Jim has not told him, what he might not be aware of, is the subtle drooping of one side of his face. That, coupled with the loss of vision and his general disorientation indicates significant neurological compromise. One that is worsening over time. Spock suspects an intraparenchymal bleed as a result of cranial fracture. Romulans are so strong, Vulcan strong. It is doubtful they noticed their excessive use of force. Even with proper medical care, approximately forty percent of all such hemorrhages are fatal. Judging by Jim's ataxia and his disparate pupil response, bleeds in the cerebellum or parietal lobe are most likely. Steps must be taken to lower his blood pressure and alleviate the risk of seizure or loss of consciousness. Spock is suddenly not concerned about Jim becoming cold, as hypothermia is known to reduce the damage caused by bleeding in the brain. He wants access to doctor McCoy and his vials of adregenic antagonizers; he wants a tricorder capable of telling them more than what they already know.

It takes effort to mentally redirect himself, but Spock manages it. "You must take four ccs of trianoline from your emergency first aid kit."

Jim blinks and swallows heavily. "I might throw up on you."

Spock's jaw clenches. Over forty percent of all serious head trauma victims experience nausea and emesis. "Jim, the trianoline, give it to me."

With clumsy fingers, he complies, fishing through his thigh pack for the right drug and the mini-hypo. Spock takes them from him, cursing his shaking hands and the sudden bolt of pain from his shoulder at the movement. "Your neck," he commands, dialling the correct dosage.

Jim leans in and pulls his collar down. His movements appear stiff and Spock catalogues yet another disturbing symptom. The hypo hisses reassuringly, giving the illusion of being more than the minimum they can do. Without warning, Jim empties his stomach onto the deck, the smell acrid and intense in the small space.

"Sorry," he gasps, shaken and braced on his hands.

"No," Spock says, in reference to many things he will not name.

"I think I need to..." Jim trails off, slumping forwards until he rests just shy of the mess he's made.

"You must remain awake!"

"Don't think I can," he mumbles, eyelids sinking unevenly.

Spock struggles with his harness, perspiring and shivering with the pain. This is unacceptable; he will not allow this to happen, not while there remains one more thing he can do.

"Don't," Jim growls, the most lucid he's been since Spock woke from the healing trance. "I won't let you do that. Stay out of my head."

Spock freezes, both mind and body, his breath caught somewhere between inhalation and exhalation. The depth of Jim's rejection, the absolute certainty in his eyes tells Spock this is no delirious rambling. "You may die."

"Yes. Alone. Can't have you there."

Spock looks on as Jim's eyes drift shut and his breathing slows, impotent with indecision and guilt. His heart is racing, fresh green beginning to soak through Jim's bandaging efforts as his blood pressure climbs with panic and an overwhelming powerlessness. Jim would rather die than meld with him again. He has no words for the sense of isolation and loss that realization brings.

 _Let him live,_ he pleads with a higher power he does not believe in. _If he lives, it will be enough._

Jim doesn't so much as twitch for the next forty two minutes. Spock counts every breath.

-:-

McCoy looks up as the forcefield on his cell is deactivated. He's expecting Spock, maybe, newly returned from yet another brush with death, no doubt as immaculate and starched as ever. Instead, Ambassador Sarek glides into the room, flanked by two embarrassed-looking Security personnel. Leonard pushes to his feet and purses his lips.

"Ambassador."

Sarek tilts his head slightly. "Doctor McCoy, I require your assistance in a matter of great urgency."

"Well, as you can see," he gestures around the blank little room. "I'm not at liberty to assist anyone right now."

"Captain Senekot and I have interceded on your behalf."

"Say what?"

"Captain Taylor has agreed to release you with no more than a minor citation on your record," Sarek continues, oblivious or uncaring of the doctor's surprise. "So I ask you again; will you assist me?"

He fastens his open jacket and tugs on it. "With what? I'm just a doctor, sir, and not much use outside of an operating room."

"The _Stalwart's_ mission reports and your small arms statistics say otherwise," the Ambassador counters, looking the slightest bit irritated. "It may interest you to know that while you've been incarcerated, EPAS have failed to retrieve either my son or Lieutenant James Kirk, who were still aboard Nero's flagship when it went to warp."

McCoy's gut drops away. "Do we know where they were headed?"

"Negative." Sarek's eyes are deadly serious. "We have only the trajectory of their warp signature, and even that is tainted by the temporal and gravitational influence of the collapsing rift."

He has to sit down again; his legs won't support him. "That's like looking for a needle in a haystack." He shakes his head, "no, worse than that. Like looking for a needle in a haystack while blindfolded."

"The Vulcan High Council have commissioned a small search and rescue party. It was only logical that members of EPAS be included, given your unique experience in such matters."

McCoy boggles, hands spread wide in disbelief. "I'm a doctor, not a navigator!"

"Lieutenant Pavel Andreivich Chekov has also been seconded."

"He's in no fit state to fly anything!"

"His piloting skills will not be required, merely his aptitude for astrogation."

"Even so ..."

"There is more than one reason for my insistence that you be included in this mission," Sarek cuts him off sharply. "You may tend to Ensign Chekov's medical needs regardless of whether we locate Spock and Kirk." The Ambassador cuts an imposing figure in his long robes, piercing eyes steady under hooded brows. "I have no further time to waste on discussion. Do you accept?"

"I do," Leonard nods, because of course he does. "I'll need my kit."

  
-:-

  
Chapel has Pavel in a wheelchair on the hangar deck, which is the first thing McCoy notices. The second thing is the fact she's towering over the XO, Harris, like she has the inches on him, even though the reverse is true. She's taller through sheer force of personality.

"What's going on?" he asks Sarek in an undertone.

"The _Tat'sar's_ extended sensors have picked up a small metallic object in the wake of the _Narada's_ estimated warp trajectory. It may or may not be an escape pod."

"Good God, man! What are we doing standing around here?"

Sarek arches an eyebrow calmly. "It seems that Commander Harris objects to our rescue mission."

"We'll see about that!"

Sarek stops him with a firm hand to his chest. It's like walking into a wall, pulling him up with one foot dangling in the air. "I do believe your young friend has the situation well in hand."

McCoy lifts his eyes from the implacable Vulcan palm to the coldly furious face of Christine Chapel.

"No, you listen to me!" she snarls, rounding on Harris with all the coiled fury of mother protecting a cub. "Those boys are like family to me, and I will _not_ tolerate the idea of them floating around that junkyard like a piece of trash. They're worth more than that. They're better than that. They're goddamn EPAS Points, which makes them family, and if you'd ever belonged to anything in your life as important as that, maybe you'd understand." Her eyes fill with tears but she stabs the air in front of the XO's face with one blunt, trimmed fingernail. "You take the _Stalwart_ and you leave us here if you want to. You fire me or report me or strip me of my rank, but I won't let you do this." Her hands clench into tight fists. "Not you, or the Captain."

Harris swallows and lowers his PADD, face unmoving as though frozen with the intensity of her pledge. McCoy feels sorry for him, just a little, through the haze of his own anger. The XO can only follow in the footsteps of his Captain and Taylor has never been the head of the _Stalwart_ family the way he ought to have been. As Harris slowly, deliberately stands aside to let them pass, Leonard nods at him, eyes firm, taking a moment to acknowledge the man he might be under different circumstances.

Chapel loads Pavel into the shuttle, helping him swing his splinted leg out of the wheelchair and into the co-pilot's seat. Pale and still evidently shaken by recent experiences, the kid still smiles warmly, a heavily-accented joke falling from his quirked lips.

Sarek climbs aboard like he owns the place and McCoy hands the packed kit to Chapel with a wry expression on his face. "Like hell am I taking orders from Spock's dad."

Christine sniffs and wipes at her eyes with the back of her free hand. "I don't care who's in charge, just so long as they're not going to give up on them."

"Still, we're down a Point or two," he sighs. "If that escape pod..." a hearty slap between his shoulder blades cuts him off.

"What am I, invisible?" Lioli asks, withdrawing her hand and glancing around comically. "Look around you, Doctor."

"Hey," Hannity adds, already suited up. "Pre-flight; I'm on it," she adds, turning away.

McCoy's gaze flicks between the two of them; Spock's crew, Jim's friends, and he has to swallow the lump in his throat. "Thank you."

"We don't know it's them," Lioli says sternly, her hands deftly adjusting the neck seal on her EVA suit while she talks. "It could be anything; space junk. Don't get your hopes up."

"Yeah," he agrees gruffly, nodding. "The odds are against them."

Everyone else looks up at that, catching McCoy's eye and pausing momentarily to share some kind of group epiphany. McCoy laughs through his nose and swings into his bench seat. Everyone except Sarek grins in renewed purpose, because no-win scenarios are what Jim and Spock _do._

  
-:-

  
"I feel really bad for the other you," Jim whispers eventually.

Spock jerks roughly awake, sending a flash of pain through his shoulder with the movement. It does nothing to hide the guilt he feels for letting his attention wander. "Why?" is all he says, even though he wants to object to the close association between him and his alternate self.

"It would be horrible; to die alone."

Spock blinks, nodding in unconscious agreement; his own compromised state betrays him. "You care for him."

Jim doesn't move from his sprawl on the deck, but his fingers twitch in Spock's line of sight. "He gave me a reason, you know?"

Spock does not know, but he hears well enough and mistakenly thinks he understands.

  
-:-

  
The Echo Delta class shuttle snaps into real space, the overtaxed warp engine redlining so hard that McCoy fears the dials may be permanently stuck at maximum. The rescue shuttles aren't designed for warp hops longer than a few hundred lightyears, just enough to discourage active pursuit out of any combat zone. Hannity has somehow coaxed more than anyone thought possible from the sole dilithium crystal. Chekov is a brilliant navigator, shortening their route by significant degrees and utilizing the gravitational wells of planets and stars to eke out their momentum. Hannity knows how good he is, and even she breathes a pointed sigh of relief as she finally relaxes her grip on the controls. They're not embedded in a passing moon or crushed to a singularity.

"We're in the object's last known location," she mutters, splaying her hands over the displays and flicking vectors across the shiny surface to her left.

Pavel catches them with his fingertips, slotting them into complex algorithms deftly. "Acknowledged. Processing input from external scanners."

McCoy passes his tricorder over the young man's head for what is probably the twentieth time. Some of the readings are borderline, but those have more to do with fatigue and stress than any true systemic compromise, so he sniffs and clips the device back onto his belt. His EVA suit is stiff and uncomfortable, not as well worn as those belonging to Points, but he'll be damned if they make him sit this rescue out. He catches himself wringing his hands together and glances around to see if anyone's noticed. Lioli and Sarek are too busy staring at the back of Chekov's head to pay any attention to his lapse in confidence. Leonard bargains with God and Satan and anyone else who might have him, just so long as they can make this happen.

"Got them!" Chekov crows, forcing the doctor to wonder just which deity now owns his immortal soul and his secret stash of Saurian brandy.

"Holy shit," Hannity confirms. "Hull integrity intact, two lifesigns. One human, the other ... well, that's definitely Spock."

It may be McCoy's imagination, but Sarek appears to breathe for the first time since they slingshotted out of the _Stalwart_. "Estimated time to rendezvous?" the Vulcan Ambassador enquires, not a trace of tension evident.

"We're limping a little here," Hannity confesses. "Best I can do is four minutes, give or take."

"Final check," Lioli commands, seamlessly slipping into her role as Point Two of this mission. "Phasers to maximum stun, continuous long-range scanners please, I don't want any surprises."

"Aye, Lieutenant," Chekov nods.

Hannity vaults out of the pilot's seat and slips past the bulkhead. The two Points pat each other down, testing seals and lines, grapples, beacons and air reserves. McCoy has to blink away the vision of Spock and Jim doing exactly the same thing, countless times over. For the first time, he realizes just how long it's been since _he_ slept; too busy worrying about everyone else.

"What's the word on hardlock capability?" Lioli wants to know as she tightens one boot fractionally. "I'd rather not pop that pod if I don't have to."

Chekov pulls a sour face. "Romulan construction does not permit a perfect seal, sir, but I think we can maintain a pressure differential long enough for you to transfer the Lieutenant and the Commander."

"And estimated travel time to the _Stalwart's_ last known coordinates?"

"Approximately one and one half hours, sir." Chekov shrugs apologetically. "The dilithium crystal is severely depleted. Even at ninety-two minutes we'll be coasting in on nothing but impulse."

"Understood," Lioli sighs, throwing a pointed glance McCoy's direction.

As always, it's his job to keep everyone alive for as long as it takes. He hopes like hell they're sitting in that pod trading mental chess moves and pretending like nobody's noticed they've stopped keeping score. He hopes all they need from him is a stern talking to and a vindictive hypo in the neck for all the worry they've caused.

Turns out, his soul and his brandy won't buy him that much. He's exhausted his line of credit.  
When they cycle the airlock on the pod, McCoy is second through the door behind Lioli, phaser drawn obedient to protocol. It clatters to the deck the minute he sees the look on Spock's face. The Commander's eyes are wide with distress, unnaturally dark in his drained face. The green Romulan lighting does something to hide the extent of his hemorrhaging, but the doctor knows the look of someone who's bleeding out and Spock has it.

"No," Spock rasps, divining McCoy's unconscious triage before it's voiced. "Jim first."

It's only then that the doctor acknowledges the weight against his boot, the sprawled form of his friend, face down and contorted on the deck. "Son of a bitch," McCoy breathes, crumpling rather than shifting to his knees, hands shaking on his tricorder. The readings are bad, exponentially worse than Spock's, despite how things look on the surface. Internal injuries are so much harder to treat, so insidious and sly.

He glances over his shoulder, blindly fumbling in his kit for more of what Spock has already given Jim. "We need to get them both out of here, stat," he growls as Hannity shoulders in behind him. "No ninety minutes, no half-assed shuttle sickbay. They need real help. They need it now."

Sarek slides into view, somehow shouldering past everyone without so much as touching them. His hooded eyes take in the broken shape of his son and the ferocity of the way McCoy has set to work on Kirk. "Ensign Chekov," he says calmly. "Open a priority channel and direct the _Tat'sar_ to make all possible speed to this location. Diplomatic authority. Use my codes."

"But I don't have your ..."

Sarek flicks a data crystal towards the cockpit and Chekov catches it on reflex alone.  
"Aye, Ambassador. Transmitting now."

"What can I do?" Hannity demands as Lioli turns to tighten up the makeshift airlock, trying to lessen the audible hissing of escaping atmosphere.

"Spock," McCoy snaps. "Plasma expanders and two ccs of pulmozine, stat."

"On it."

"Would not Vulcan blood be preferable?" Sarek interjects.

"Stuff's like liquid gold," McCoy drawls, eyes glued to the shadows on Jim's brain scan. "What little we've got is back on the _Stalwart_."

"I am forced to correct you," the Ambassador says conversationally, absurdly calm under the circumstances. He rolls up his sleeve and presents his arm to Hannity. "I can spare at least two liters with no ill effect."

McCoy glances up, sees the offering, understands Hannity's hesitation, but has no time for it. "What are you waiting for?"

"Okay," she nods, selecting a wide bore needle and a torniquet. "Yeah, okay."

The Ambassador sits beside his son, rich robes dragging in the blood he will attempt to replace. Spock is barely conscious, head lolling and breathing shallow, but his eyes stay fixed forward, determined. As the needle pierces his skin, Sarek reflects upon that look, and the human woman who once directed it at him.

-:-

  
When Jim opens his eyes he expects pain. There isn't any. He's free to blink and frown and roll his lips together, uncomfortable with the dryness that comes from disuse. Gentle hands firmly but deftly place a straw between his lips.

"Suck," McCoy instructs him.

Jim does, swallowing awkwardly. "Charmer," he croaks when he's done.

The doctor sighs and sets the cup down with a plastic click, stepping into Jim's field of vision. "How are you feeling?"

"How _should_ I be feeling?" Jim asks, flexing his limbs and gingerly turning his head towards his friend.

"Like one lucky son of a bitch."

"Sounds about right."

McCoy plucks a stylus from his pocket and brandishes it. "Follow the tip," he says. "Good, now up and down. Okay then. Any blurred vision?"

"No."

"Light sensitivity?"

"Uh, no."

"Headache, neck ache, spots or flashes?"

"No. No, no and no," Jim frowns. "I feel fine, stop fussing."

"Fussing?" McCoy exclaims, throwing his hands up and letting them fall with a slap. "I swear, only you could be so blase about a near death experience. At least Spock has the common courtesy to apologize for scaring the crap out of me, my nursing staff and the entirety of Prime Division. I thought Pike was going to have kittens when the _Tat'sar_ beamed us out of there! I've never seen the old man so worked up. Do you know he smacked Taylor in the shin with that stick of his so hard it left a bruise? Chapel does; she had to remove it. Oh, and that's nothing compared to the little fit he threw on the bridge when the Admiralty ordered us to pursue the _Narada_. I didn't see that one myself, but it was damned impressive by all accounts."

"I'll bet," Jim mumbles, so far from being able to deal with McCoy in this mood.

"It's caused seven kinds of hell back home, Pike defying a direct order from F-Sec like that. I figure the only thing that saved him from the brig is the total lack of clarity in the EPAS chain of command. Technically, it was Taylor they ordered to follow Nero, so maybe _he'll_ get brought up on charges for being a pansy and letting a cripple lead a mutiny."

"Mutiny?" Jim echoes, feeling strangely lost amidst the tirade. McCoy only motor-mouths when he's been really, decently scared by something, so Jim just settles in for the ride.

"That's not what they're calling it, obviously," McCoy growls, rummaging through Jim's charts on his PADD and scowling furiously. "Can it be a mutiny when the officer who relieves you ranks higher than you? Is it just a command decision then?"

"Um ..."

"Whatever," McCoy waves dismissively. "It's irrelevant. The fact is _someone's_ going to get court martialled. Might even be you, Jim."

"Me?" This has him instantly awake. "Why me?"

McCoy looks at him for a long time, curiosity warring with caution. "Spock is refusing to testify."

Jim experiences a sudden jolt of guilt that he hasn't yet thought to ask about Spock. "Testify to what, exactly?"

"The reason you felt compelled to take an ED shuttle and pilot a suicide mission into the heart of a temporal rift." He pauses, studies Jim's reaction with a keen eye. "The reason Spock broke protocol and risked beaming without a transporter lock to get you back. Also, why a Vulcan Ambassador and a handful of wounded, exhausted EPAS crew would walk all over this ship's XO to find you two and bring you home when the odds of success were slim to none." McCoy shrugs and sucks his teeth. "I don't need to tell you how it looks, do I?"

"Like I'm an adrenaline junkie with a death wish and Spock is emotionally compromised over me." With a sinking feeling, Jim struggles onto his elbows, fighting not to take this lying down. "Shit."

"You could say that," McCoy drawls.

Truthfully, Jim doesn't care what the Admiralty thinks of him, but if they ground him it will mean saying goodbye to the _Stalwart_ and everything that entails. Still, that pales in comparison to what Spock is facing. On the surface, his a smaller charge; a simple lapse in professionalism, or at the very worst, fraternization. It's a slap on the wrist, it's an incident report. At least it would be, if Spock weren't Vulcan.

"I need to see him," Jim announces, voice laced with urgency. "I need to see him _now_."

"Get in line."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He's scared and flush with adrenaline, the two combining to make him nasty.

"I had orders to notify Pike the moment you regained consciousness. He and Spock had some sort of conversation on the _Tat'sar_ , but the Admiral shut him down pretty fast. Now, I can't be the only one who's noticed Spock has spent the last seventy two hours waiting for something. With all due respect, I don't think it was merely a glimpse of your baby blues."

Jim grits his teeth. "Computer, page Divisional Commander Spock."

 _Commander Spock is unavailable except in the event of an emergency._

"Is he in sick bay?" This is directed at McCoy, accusatory, making it very clear where Jim stands on the notion of keeping such information from him.

McCoy makes a 'search me' gesture. "I discharged him yesterday."

"Computer," Jim snaps. "Current location Commander Spock?"

 _Temporary quarters assigned to Admiral Christopher Pike._

  
-:-

  
"Thank you for coming."

Spock stands at parade rest, his expression unreadable. "I have been seeking an audience with you for the last twenty four hours. It is only logical that I would attend when you finally grant my request."

"Do I detect a slight hint of resentment?" Pike tilts his head questioningly.

"You do not."

The Admiral sighs and leans forward across the desk. "I heard what you said aboard the _Tat'sar_ , you know." He pauses, but Spock says nothing. "I understand that you were borderline hypothermic and under the influence, but I'd still hoped for a little more discretion."

"I ... apologize," Spock says tightly.

Pike gestures with an open hand, exasperated. "Maybe it wouldn't matter so much if you hadn't gone chasing off after him without so much as a wing or a prayer, but in light of that, I'm going to have to transfer you."

Spock nods, jaw tight, dropping his eyes to the floor.

"Count yourself lucky it was only me, McCoy and a stray Vulcan or two who heard what you said, otherwise I wouldn't be able to keep this on the low down." Pike scrubs at his face with the palms of his hands, an expression of bone-deep weariness etched around his eyes. "We can call it a secondment or something. All we need to do is get you out of the hot seat for a while, let this whole thing blow over. George is going to take this on the chin, we’ve discussed it and I hate to do it to him, but he understands the operational necessity. He's done the best he can, but someone has to take the fall for this, and it wasn’t EPAS in the center seat."

"Captain Taylor is not responsible for Jim's plan, my actions, or those of my father," Spock says quietly. "I cannot, in conscience, permit ..."

"It's got nothing to do with Kirk's recklessness," Pike cuts him off, “he cleared it with the chain of command before he went. For once, Jim did things by the book. I can't believe I'm saying this to you of all people, but this has everything to do with _your_ decisions, not his. I don't need your permission to deal with that as I see fit."

If possible, Spock's expression blanks even further.

"However, it's not like the Captain is an innocent in all of this," Pike continues. "Let's try to remember how he ordered repairs on the _Atlas_ rather than maintain proper security patrols. Let's not forget how the first Robii refugee ships got picked off by Romulans at Aspera because the _Tat'sar_ was recalled by your father, leaving the _Stalwart_ as the commanding vessel on the scene, and Taylor as the supervising officer. If the Vulcan High Council thinks I’m going to turn a blind eye, they have another thing coming. This isn't just about keeping you and Kirk out of the spotlight. I can't tolerate this kind of incompetence at a command level, not with Nero pulling these kind of stunts."

Spock shifts subtly and Pike waves a hand at him, granting him permission to speak. "I am uncomfortable with the notion of the Captain suffering disciplinary action on my behalf," he says in a small, level voice.

"It's not your behalf," Pike snaps. "It's on behalf of the additional twenty five hundred Robii who lost their lives because George Taylor wouldn't know operational security if it walked up and introduced itself. Get that through your head."

Spock swallows visibly.

Pike stares at him, at the bowed head and the sling that cradles his healing left arm. "Jesus, Spock. How did it come to this?"

The Commander remains silent.

"I can't believe I've got to pull you." Pike shakes his head, slapping the desk lightly in frustration. "I needed you here, dammit. I was going to make you Captain of the _Stalwart._ "

Spock looks up, confusion in his eyes. "Captain?"

"But I can't do that now, not with you and not with any EPAS employee, because this debacle has brought the Federation Security Council down on our heads like a pack of vengeful gods. F-Sec want us bad, and the two of you might have handed them the leverage they need. I've got a dozen comms from senators and twice as many from lesser delegates demanding the militarization of the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service on grounds that civilians aren't equipped to make command decisions in times of war."

"History has demonstrated that that assumption inaccurate."

"Voters don't care about history, Spock. They care about winning this war maybe, but generally about simply surviving it. Truthfully, I can't fault your actions. As much as it undermines my own authority to say it, if that had been you trapped on that Romulan ship, if it had been my Point One, I doubt I could have stood by and watched the _Narada_ warp away." Pike's eyes are hard and intent. "As your commanding officer, I have to cite the regulations you broke and the inappropriate nature of your motivation, but as a human being ..." he trails off as something in his face softens. "I get it, Spock."

"It is no excuse."

"Like it or not, it's the truth," Pike counters, taking no hostages. "For a lot of people, for a good percentage of your crew, that simple feeling is the reason this war is worth the cost. They're not out here for Aspera or Earth or their ship, they're fighting to hold onto that little bit of goodness in their lives. I don't blame you for risking everything to keep him safe."

"That is a human way of looking at things," Spock observes.

Pike grins, a little of his anger still visible. "Oh, very."

A beat passes where Spock opens his mouth and shuts it again, clearly reconsidering. "I regret my interference in your plans for a command restructure."

"Not as much as I do," Pike quips, allowing the change of topic. "How about I let you make it up to me?"

"Sir?"

"Your secondment to the Vulcan Science Academy starts today, effective immediately. When we're done here, pack a bag and beam over to the _Tat'sar_ for a six week tour of duty. Since your other self is now missing, they're a man down, and I don't know anyone else better qualified to fill that particular pair of shoes."

Spock takes a deep breath through his nose and releases it slowly. "I am not a scientist, Admiral, nor have I the same degree of experience with temporal anomalies ..."

"I know this isn't what you want." Pike shrugs, "it isn't what I want, either. Think of this as an opportunity, not a punishment. _Make_ something of it."

"I am unsure as to how I could possibly assist the _Tat'sar_ , given the nature and scope of her mission," Spock persists, a slight edge of _something_ creeping into his voice.

"Oh, you don't think you could improve their save-to-loss ratio? Have you forgotten the injured saves aboard that ship that sparked so much controversy in the Robicon system?" Pike pushes to his feet, grappling momentarily with his sticks. "Also, I've seen your test scores, remember? You taught at Starfleet Academy, so don't pretend this temporal physics business is beyond you."

"My understanding is rudimentary, at best."

Pike zeroes in on the solitary fist, clenched tightly at Spock's side, because there is definitely a hint of emotion in that voice, he just can't tell which one. If he had more time, more patience or more leeway, he'd push until things were right between them, but the reality of the situation is that he's delayed long enough already. The reason he'd let Spock stew for an extra day has just woken up in sickbay, and that matters because he’s pretty sure of Spock's answer to his next question.

"I need a new DivCO, Spock, even if it's temporary. Recommendations?"

Spock's eyes find his, wide and deep with the same emotion that had crept into his voice, and dammit if that emotion wasn't betrayal. “Kirk would be most suitable."

"Oh, this is going to look great on paper," Pike drawls, watching this play out exactly the way he'd predicted.

"Admiral, I owe him my life many times over," Spock says stiffly. "I seek to repay that debt the only way I know how; by giving him an opportunity to demonstrate the qualities of leadership and innovation that you yourself state EPAS is lacking. I admit that, in this instance, my judgement is informed by emotion ..." he pauses after that confession and squares his shoulders. "However, the other emotions in question are those of gratitude, respect and admiration. It is my opinion that Kirk is a most suitable candidate for Divisional Commander."

"Spock ..." the Admiral interjects wearily.

"Sir," he counters immediately. "I am aware of the complexities of such an appointment, however I wish to reiterate that I would not seek to promote any member of this crew if said individual was not suitably proficient."

"I'm not saying he can't do the job, Spock, I just ..."

Uncharacteristically, Spock interrupts again, taking one small step closer to Pike's desk in his determination. "I have made my recommendation, Admiral, and am prepared to accept my secondment to the VSA."

Pike stays propped on his sticks, the shake in his arms the only indication that the static pose is difficult for him. "We've served together in some capacity too long for misunderstandings."

Spock just watches him, dark eyes intent.

Pike rubs at the grip on his walking stick. "So tell me, how much longer is it going to be before you trust me?"

Spock's eyebrows fly up. "Sir?"

"You come in here, you screw up my plans, you make what seems to be a carefully considered nomination for promotion and yet you assume I'm going to question not only your candidate but also your motivation?" Pike takes a breath and lets it out in a gusty sigh. "Why?"

Spock's eyebrows descend and his eyes lower to the deck again. "My apologies," he says softly but firmly. "My behavior has been ... reprehensible."

"It's certainly been uncharacteristic," Pike returns, leaning his chin on one hand. "Want to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I think not."

Pike barks out a laugh and straightens, shaking his head. "So you think Kirk has what it takes to command a whole division?"

Spock inclines his head. "I do."

"He's got quite a few citations next to his name, and not all of them good."

"I am familiar with his service record, just as you are."

"You've written him up once or twice, yourself," Pike presses, searching for a reaction he won’t acknowledge.

"I recall the incidents in question."

"I bet you do," Pike grins, finally, dispelling some of the tension between them and hiding his disappointment. "Okay, I approve your nomination. Kirk can have DivCO until you come back to us."

-:-

  
Word has spread that Jim is awake, and the crowd that gathers is flattering but it's also hindering his desire to get from sickbay to Pike's quarters as fast as his wobbly legs will carry him. Hannity is amongst the first to register his frustration, her hands the ones that help him to his feet, her body the one that shields him from those who groan and plead with him to stay, to put off whatever business he has until he's discharged, because honestly. Even as he makes it to the door, he has an innate sense that he's missed his chance without ever knowing its terms or conditions.

"Jim!" Chekov gasps, breathless from limping. "Let me through, I must speak with Jim!"

The crowd of people around the biobed parts quickly, revealing Jim poised to leave, one hand on the wall for support. "What is it?" he asks, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. "What's happened?"

"It's the DivCO, sir."

Kirk takes an instinctive step forwards. "Spock?"

"He's gone, sir."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"Shuttle bay one," Chekov whispers, apparently horrified, "the transport to the _Tat’sar_ , approximately two minutes ago, sir."

"To Vulcan? But ..." Kirk's mind is swimming with confusion and an overwhelming sense that everything is balanced ever so precariously. "What's he doing? We're on our way to Earth."

McCoy elbows through the stunned crew and presses a PADD into Jim's numb hands. The doctor watches his eyes flick across the lighted surface, sees him pale as the reality sinks in. Those deft surgeon's hands are poised, ready to catch him if he falls. Instead, Kirk's eyes flash and an angry blush rises on his cheeks. Without a word, he shoves the PADD into McCoy's chest and propels himself unsteadily into the corridor. Crew scatter in his path like leaves caught in a current. Not one of them follows.

He makes it to one of the port departure docks in reasonable time, despite his grogginess. It means he gets there before the sleek ship has gone to warp. It's still visible through the glass, even if he does have to get the computer to point it out for him.

"Ops, Kirk here, patch me through to the _Tat’sar_ ," he commands, thumb pressed so hard into the button that it aches.

 _Patching you through now, sir._

 _This is the Tat’sar, state your business._

"This is Lieutenant James. T. Kirk," he begins, amazed at how level his voice is, how calm. "I need to speak with one of your passengers."

With a couple more back and forths, he manages to get Spock on the comm line in his tiny cabin. The transport is an almost invisible speck inside the blue computer generated circle that frames it.

"Spock here."

His voice is as loud as if he were standing a foot away, rather than thousands of klicks, and Jim's brain fails to process the reality of the situation. The anger in his gut drops away, leaving a painful hole that forces a gasp out of him. "Where are you going?"

There is a pause that has to be Spock's own, because they're not far enough apart yet for there to be any comm-lag. "My destination is Deep Space Four, where I will undertake a brief secondment as part of the _Tat’sar’s_ science department."

"If you were reassigned, why didn't you tell me?"

"I have not had the opportunity." There is another long pause. "I have only just learned of it myself."

The ground seems to shift and Jim grips the edge of the window. "Why? Spock, what's going on?"

"I regret the timing of this information. I did not wish for it to impinge upon the celebration of your promotion."

"Promotion?" Jim shakes his head as if Spock could see, and then rests it against the comm, next to his hand, still holding down the button that is the last corporeal link between them. He feels tears in his eyes, burning. "How could you do this to me?" he whispers.

"It is unfortunate that we have not had the opportunity to discuss the status of our ... association."

The halo marker flashes orange on the window, broadcasting the ship’s intention to imminently warp. Jim lifts his head, moves his hand, presses the fingertips against the tiny speck of white in the black where Spock is.

"Write me."

Silence.

"Spock, dammit, don’t shut me out!"

Silence.

"Damn you!" he shouts, punches the wall.

The halo around the transport flicks to red.

"Spock,” he tries one last time, desperate and angry. “Do this for me."

The static of an open frequency finally yields the words Jim needs to hear. "Very well."

Jim gasps and releases the comm just as the transport elongates and flashes to warp. The halo marker blinks out and an error message pops up in its place. With effort, he flips himself around so his back is against the wall. He sees McCoy standing there, grim and silent. The blood from Jim's split knuckles hits the deck with tiny splashes, dripping now that his arm is lowered.

  
-:-

  
Jim Kirk is the kind of friend that Leonard never knows what to do with. Will the kid want comfort or humor? Honesty or pretense? The uncertainty keeps him in the sickbay with the rest of them after Jim leaves, and it's not until Pike comes looking for him that he realizes it was the wrong choice. The Admiral looks strained and kind of guilty.

He wants to curse or drink, but preferably both at the same time. Instead he stalks down long corridors and rides turbolifts to the shuttle bay, hands jammed in his pockets and wearing a scowl so deep it might well be permanent.

Jim is alone when McCoy finds him. Judging by the state of him, that's a blessing. He’s the DivCO now, and can’t afford any show of instability. F-Sec are all over them, looking for an excuse to put one of their own in charge. McCoy doesn’t have the clearance to know that officially, but bridge communications is manned by EPAS Ops. Taylor is nuts if he thinks the whole ship doesn’t know.

It's the sight of Jim's blood that pulls his attention back to the present. He shifts involuntarily, trained by long association with hurt and pain to move towards the source of it and make it stop. Two steps closer and the hand is forgotten as Kirk pulls him into a fierce hug. There'll be blood on his uniform, but Bones is used to that. Jim is clutching him like a drowning man, burying his hot face in his shoulder and clutching, shifting, grabbing at the fabric.

"Easy, now," Bones mutters. "Easy, Jim."

  
-:-

  
It takes Christopher Pike about an hour to realize that sending Spock away may not have been his most inspired piece of political appeasement. Granted, the Federation Security Council are mollified, preoccupied with dissecting George Taylor's many inadequacies as a captain, and keeping F-Sec off his back has become practically impossible of late. However, Jim's stony silence when he's officially offered the position of DivCO, his simple nod of acceptance, McCoy's barely restrained fury over the biobed; it all makes Pike nervous. He recalls Spock's shattered equilibrium and his necessarily abrupt departure for the _Tat'sar_.

"Did you two get a chance to ..." and he trails off as McCoy takes an unconscious step forward, fists clenched.

Jim regards him flatly, every scrap of feeling hidden away, and Pike experiences a sinking sensation; knowing that he has succeeded in something that not even Jim's stepfather had managed, or T'Loren's Vulcan exactitude. The kid still says nothing, newly mended knuckles pink and fresh against his thigh, quietly waiting, almost daring him to finish that sentence.

"He'll come back," Pike offers finally, willing it to be true.

"To what?" Jim tilts his head.

And Pike doesn't know if he's asking about himself or the Division. "To whatever there is."

Jim nods as though that was expected. "Let's hope so."

"You _do_ realize that I couldn't just let it stand."

"Yeah, I get it," he nods, restrained and perfunctory. "Your reliable Vulcan finally did something a little too human."

"Jim ..."

"Never mind," he snaps, "I'm done with this conversation. It's nobody's business but Spock's, anyway."

Pike watches him shrug into his jacket, leaving the top two fastenings undone even though they're all on their way to the meeting that will hand him leadership of the most important search and rescue division in the fleet. Jim leaves before him, never looking back, and it's not precisely insubordination but it could be a premonition.

  
-:-

  
Jim accepts the promotion to Divisional Commander and Point Two of Nix Alpha.

He makes it through the first week and the next. He organizes their ravaged resources, puts in requests for replacement parts and personnel. He talks with the newly appointed Captain Harris, manages a perfunctory job interview with Pike and the Minister for Health without swearing. He files his reports like a model DivCO and even convinces Ambassador Sarek to continue on to _Ql'tomer_ with a small delegation of heavily armed ships. Nobody's really sure how he pulls that off, especially considering the lukewarm reception it gets from the Vulcan High Council.

On the thirteenth day, Jim sits through the disciplinary hearing on Luna and takes his licks with uncharacteristic stoicism. If he speaks, it's to confirm or clarify the order of events, never in his defense. The only person he sticks up for is Spock, and even then it's on a point of record.

The video transcript of the session confirms the new chain of command aboard the _Stalwart_ , but it also shows a blank faced Lieutenant Kirk being watched by an unsettled Admiral Pike. It's not one F-Sec will use to reassure the general public that the wheels of the Federation are still turning smoothly. It's too tense, too rife with unspoken accusations.

On the fifteenth day, Jim heads their first deployment as DivCO. They're barely out of Federation space before Nero's fleet are on them, not the _Narada_ , but a motley collection of battle cruisers and modified civilian vessels. An outright attack on an EPAS is unprecedented, and 'Fleet are already calling it the inevitable consequence of their unwise decision to stand and fight at Aspera. Prime Division grit their teeth and dig in their heels, counting themselves lucky when they hold their own for just long enough. Bruised, close to beaten and in desperate need of repairs, Jim convinces Harris to fly them into a nebula. They escape by the narrowest of margins. Apparently, revenge isn't so tasty when ion radiation is messing with your shields and sensors.

Harris has the option to pitstop at Deep Space Two for some hull patching, but Jim convinces him Scotty can handle it. When the cocky bastard does it in record time, Jim cuts loose and makes him Chief Engineer; the _Stalwart_ hasn't had one for months and Harris confirms the choice without hesitation. It's quickly becoming apparent to the crew that Jim is in charge of this ship and the new Captain is just a figurehead. It's more overt than Spock's relationship with Taylor, but nobody seems to mind. Jim isn't exactly a subtle kind of guy, and they're used to the concept anyway.

It's the sixteenth day when McCoy finds Jim sprawled in a treatment room, an nearly empty bottle in his hand and tears running down his face. "I'm just so fucking _confused!_ " he exclaims thoughtfully and on cue. "I tried so hard to make him understand why I was afraid but he left anyway." He raises one hand and lets it fall to the deck again with a thud. There's a PADD clutched in it. The writing is in Vulcan. "I don’t think he believes me. I might never be free of it, even if he doesn’t know the truth.”

"Jim," McCoy begins cautiously, circling the gurney to kneel by his friend. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not good for him," Kirk grins sloppily, trying to bring the bottle to his mouth again only to find that alcohol has robbed him of all his strength. Everything in his grip clatters to the deck, spilling the amber liquid in a foamy stream across the floor. "I'm not what he needs."

"Jesus, Jim," McCoy breathes, placing a hand on Jim's shoulder only to have it shrugged violently aside.

"I don't want your fucking pity," he spits, head lolling against the wall. "I know what you're thinking."

"I think you need about two liters of water and twelve hours sleep."

"No you're not," Jim's eyes are frustratingly acute in his slack face. "You're thinking the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Well, fuck me if you aren't right about that. You've read my sealed file, don't pretend you haven't. I was raised by drunks and assholes, so it stands to reason, right?" he spreads his arms, encompassing the whole room in his invitation to observe the mess that is James T. Kirk. "Fuck everyone. Fuck you. I don't care anymore."

McCoy wills away the chill, somehow managing to stand guard as Jim laughs until he chokes on nothing but air. He thinks about what Spock said, barely conscious and still bleeding when they beamed aboard the _Tat’sar_. He can’t reconcile those words with the image of Jim before him.

 

 


	33. chapter 6.1

Over a dozen years ago, Spock stands stiffly in robes that are fast becoming too short for him. Again.

"I do not understand Mother's objection to my decision," he says. "She did not voice an opinion at the time of my initial application."

Sarek raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps she thought it logical to cultivate multiple options."

Spock mimics the eyebrow and waits.

"Yes. It is far more probable she assumed you would grow out of the idea," Sarek acknowledges.

"How can one outgrow an idea?"

"You are being overly literal."

"I am simply confused."

"Humans are often confusing."

"Initially I was confused by her response, now I also find _your_ response confusing," Spock frowns.

"Humans may be confusing, but parents are always more so."

Spock allows himself a sigh laced with frustration. "This _conversation_ is confusing."

"May I suggest you start at the beginning?"

"When I told Mother I am planning to refuse the Vulcan Science Academy, she expressly forbade me to leave Vulcan." Spock shakes his head, the neat bowl cut swinging softly. "I have undergone the _khas-wan_ and am free to make my own decisions regarding my future career. It is illogical for her to say such things."

"I suspect her reversion to parental dominance in such matters is motivated by emotion." Sarek watches his younger son carefully for a response. "She has always felt that your place is here, on Vulcan."

"I am under no illusions regarding her preference on that issue."

"Then you can understand her opposition to your plans."

"Infer a connection, yes; comprehend the reason, no Father, I cannot." Spock struggles to school his expression, grateful when Sarek not only allows him the time to recompose himself, but does not comment on the lapse. "She seems strangely averse to her own people."

"She merely hopes you will avoid a feeling of inadequacy by fully adopting Vulcan culture."

"Inadequacy?"

"You have had little to no opportunity to experience it first hand, but Vulcans are often quite isolated when living amongst humans. There is considerable initial pressure to adopt human customs, followed by a gradual but inevitable decline in social interaction. It takes a unique human to breach these layers of misconception." Sarek may or may not glance fondly at the holo of his wife. Spock chooses to ignore it.

"Her objection is based on a desire to protect me from emotional trauma?" Spock seeks to clarify.

"Perhaps your mother's own search for identity amongst us led to her preoccupation with the way you, yourself, are perceived," his father says carefully, each word weighed and considered. "I raised the matter with her many times when you were a child, but she was adamant that without proper guidance, you may come to feel disconnected," he pauses, eyes measuring, "homeless. It was for this reason that she emphasized your Vulcan heritage over her own human one."

"I did not know."

"We did not speak of it in your presence," Sarek dismisses. "However, given the current situation, I believe it is imperative that you understand I have long thought of you as a child of two worlds; always believing you capable of defining what that means, and how it comes to influence your destiny."

Spock shifts from foot to foot, his spare frame made awkward and angled by adolescence. "Your confidence in me is gratifying, but there is something I still do not understand."

Sarek gestures with an open palm, the skin lined and weathered. "Ask."

"Why do you support her position on my application to the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service?" The words come in a rush, betraying his youth and his emotional compromise. "You entrust me with the privilege of deciding whether or not to be fully human; to make myself an outcast amongst my own people. You would tolerate the impact of that on our family, on your position with the Vulcan High Council, and so I cannot reconcile your objection to EPAS."

Sarek nods. The question is, after all, quite logical. "For your mother, having a sense of community is paramount. She is, at heart, a social creature; far more so than any Vulcan. She fears the pain and ostracization your decision to leave us would cause." Sarek raises his eyes. "Not her own pain, but yours. I, too, am averse to the notion of you coming to harm."

"I do not fear it," Spock replies stoutly, his dark eyes so large in his immature face.

"Perhaps you do not yet comprehend the scope of it," his father suggests. Spock's hands tighten around each other, so he promptly hides them in the small of his back, a gesture that Sarek knows is becoming habitual. "Your mother has had twenty one years among us. She has learned much about Vulcan intolerance."

"The principles of IDIC are ..."

"Principles only," Sarek cuts him off. "Can you truly say otherwise, given your own experience? What is it the other children used to call you?"

"Mongrel," Spock supplies, owning the word rather than letting it own him. "Amongst other things."

"And these are the peers you would trust to comprehend your desire to abandon intellectual pursuits and live amongst humans?"

"One can hardly join EPAS and cease to exercise one's faculties, Father."

"Will they understand that?"

"Should it matter?"

"Perhaps not, but I would advise you to consider whether or not it _will._ "

Spock straightens imperceptibly. "To let communal ignorance influence my decision in this matter would be illogical."

"I am not suggesting otherwise."

"What _are_ you suggesting?" Spock demands, the barest hint of emotion creeping into his voice, as only happens inside the family home.

Sarek regards his half-human son with a fondness he hopes the young man can sense. "Merely that it is possible you have allowed your desire to leave Vulcan and its somewhat secular social mores to obfuscate the potential obstacles to your satisfaction in life."

"My... _satisfaction?_ "

"Spock, it is not logical to spend your hundreds of years living a life that does not satisfy you in a way that our people find difficult to acknowledge."

"You are speaking of happiness," Spock infers, his eyes flicking to the side, skittish in the way they would never be during a conversation on reproduction, bodily functions, or any other topic that customarily embarrasses human youths.

Sarek allows the barest hint of a smile to grace his lips. "Yes, I am speaking of happiness."

"Very well," Spock allows, on sufferance.

"Your continued perception of emotion as something disgraceful is unwarranted. The only harm in experiencing emotion lies in an inability to control our response to it. Vulcans feel deeply; more deeply even, than humans. You can hardly be ignorant of this fact."

"I am not ignorant, Father." Spock graces him with a meaningful look.

"Your difficulties in managing your emotions do not necessarily correlate with your human heritage. Many Vulcans also struggle to establish reliable control at your age."

"I am seventeen, Father. Most Vulcans my age are still considered children."

"And it is a source of frustration to your peers that you are not," Sarek acknowledges. "Perhaps your mother and I did you a disservice when we decided to allow your natural human maturation to dictate your majority, but I do not think so. Although you cannot see it, you are far more emotionally and intellectually mature than non-hybrids of the same age. Your mother's contribution to your genetic make up offers advantages I believe are often overlooked."

"Advantages I can best apply in an environment where my differences are not a barrier to continued advancement." Spock takes a deep and measured breath. "I find the concept of remaining here, of continuing my studies here to be...stifling. Amongst aliens, my age and my race will merely be identifiers, rather than curiosities."

"Beware the assumption that by leaving Vulcan behind you also abandon racism." Sarek's silvered brows lower into a frown. "I can assure you, to do so would result in disappointment."

"I am accustomed to disappointment in that area."

"So speaks a true adolescent," Sarek observes dryly.

Spock has the grace to blush slightly. "My response was uncalled for. I apologize."

Sarek waits until the green bleeds from Spock's cheeks before speaking again. "The VSA truly frustrates you so completely?"

"It does."

"Should you join EPAS, you have considered the requirements of living and working amongst a primarily human crew?"

"I have."

"The constant empathic noise, the casual physical contact, the expectation of small talk...the food?"

Spock's lips twitch. His father's opinions on human vegetarian dishes are well known amongst the whole extended family. It is a favored topic during the human celebrations Amanda persists in organizing and a poorly concealed source of amusement to her. "I will manage adequately."

Sarek nods, rubbing his palms along his robed thighs. "Very well."

"You approve?"

"I neither approve nor disapprove. I am merely respecting your decision as an adult." Sarek looks fleetingly perturbed. "Your mother will be most displeased that I failed to dissuade you from this course of action. I would advise making other arrangements for the evening meal."

"Understood." Spock's voice is level but his eyes are shining.

Sarek stands stiffly and crosses to his son, barely an inch between them now, but Spock is still rail thin, his Vulcan metabolism struggling to wrap enough muscle around bones that grow with human alacrity. "I trust I do not need to remind you that the career you have chosen is dangerous, and that neither your mother nor I will tolerate less than a one hundred percent survival rate from you."

Spock nods, accepting the warm, dry palm against his cheek with nothing more than a blink of surprise. His father has not touched him thus since his first day of school. The memory of that gesture goes someway towards consoling the grief he feels when the tears roll down his mother's cheeks and she refuses to speak to him.

He never has a chance to tell her that he made the right decision, or that he never intended it to hurt her, because the silence lasts ten years and then Vulcan is destroyed.

His father inherits her silence like he shoulders his grief; with a purposeful stoicism that brooks no intervention. Gone are the reassurances, the encouragement, the belief in Spock's ability to excel. He turns to Pike as proxy, but his own guilt inhibits the desire to explore his human side. They will never be friends, merely colleagues. He comes to view the rest of the Division in a similar light, leaving him once again differentiated; a singular specimen, set pointedly apart.

Spock discovers a new capacity within himself for regret.

-:-

It's a dozen or more years ago.

Jim Kirk at fifteen grits his teeth and does something he never thought he'd do.

The steps leading up to Christopher Pike's house are many and wide, forcing him to lean into each one, his gangly legs pulling tight against the soft, worn fabric of his jeans. It's a warm San Francisco night, just about dusk, when he's almost certain people will be home. He knows instinctively that he'll never be able to force himself into this twice over. He buzzes before he can hesitate.

His mom opens the door and his heart lodges in his throat.

"Jim?" she asks, eyebrows raised but very calm. "I thought you were in Iowa."

"I'm not."

"I can see that."

He shifts uncomfortably, fingers knotted in the jacket he holds in his hands, the only other possession he's brought with him apart from the clothes he stands in and the motorcycle parked in the street. "Mom, I need your help."

She's very quiet, very still. Only her eyes move, taking him in, weighing him and assessing him. He does his best not to wilt under the scrutiny. "I don't think I can help you," she says finally. "You shouldn't have come here."

"I know, but I..."

"Jim," she says, reaching out and gripping his arm hesitantly. "You shouldn't have come."

His eyes sting but he nods, teeth gritted as though he can hold back the tide through sheer force of will. "Problem is, I don't have anywhere else to go."

"The judge said ..."

"Fuck the judge," he whispers tightly. "Have you seen the place? Have you seen it, Mom?"

"Jim, you're in breach of your parole."

He waves a hand over his shoulder, into the night, into the darkness of his past. "By the time they figure out where I am, I'll be long gone. No police here, Mom, I wouldn't do that to Chris."

"You're already doing it," she frowns at him. "They'll trace you and they'll come here and they'll question him. They'll question me."

"And what will you tell them?" he demands, hating the way his voice breaks, leaping octaves, betraying his desperation.

"I'll tell them what I'm telling you; go back to Iowa, Jim. Do your time."

"Why do you blame me for this?" he demands, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. "You know what happened, you were there in court, you heard it all."

"Do your time, Jim." She folds her arms across her lean chest, toned and pale below her rolled up sleeves. "Maybe then we can be a family again."

He laughs and wipes his eyes angrily on his jacket, the zipper rough against his cheek. "Yeah, sure."

She sighs, long and heavy. "I do love you, Jim."

"Then why won't you _help_ me?" he presses, voice ratcheting still higher, making him sound twelve again, pushing him back into powerlessness.

"I _am_ helping you." She shakes her head sadly. "You're just too young to understand." With that, she steps back inside the house and shuts the door.

Jim stands there for two breaths, maybe three, just staring at the wood. It takes effort to breathe, to fight the panic, because his choices are now juvie or the streets and he doesn't know how long he'll last in either situation. With nothing to look forward to, with nobody in his corner, it all seems rather pointless. Why bother? Why keep fighting when it would be so much easier to sit somewhere and let the world come at him, his defenses down?

He turns, jacket trailing from one hand and gets as far as the gate before he hears the door open again. The firm, heavy stride tells him it's not his mom, so he keeps walking, shoulders hunched, frowning through the tears. He's almost to the bike when a strong hand grips his shoulder. He shrugs it off, but Chris is adamant, so he gives up the second time it lands.

"Jesus, Jim, hold on a second."

"What for?" he flails, jacket slapping against his thigh. "So you can tell me you're _sorry?_ "

Pike's lined face softens around the edges, the creases and furrows relaxing into something gentler, something Jim doesn't really have a word for. "I _am_ sorry," he says gruffly, shifting his grip and pulling Jim against his chest. "You have no idea how sorry I am."

Jim tries to stay rigid, tries to fight the feeling, but Chris' breath is warm against his scalp and his arms don't so much capture him as welcome him. It's too much, it's all too much, and he gives in.

Pike moves to accommodate the new pliancy, one arm wrapped around Jim's shoulders and the other warm at the back of his head. "There aren't words for how sorry I am, kid. When they passed sentence I had to leave, I hope you understand, I had to. I couldn't sit there and listen to all the bullshit, even though I wanted to be there for you. I'll never forgive myself for that."

Jim just shakes his head, unsure of everything.

"I want you to let me do something for you," Pike continues, peeling Jim off his chest to hold him by the shoulders and stare into his eyes. "And I want you to hear me out, because it's going to sound crazy."

He nods, sniffing. “Okay.”

"Enlist in 'Fleet."

" _Enlist?_ "

"I'm only a Divisional Commander, but I've got friends in high places; it comes with the territory. I can get your record sealed, your parole changed to a conscription. You can do the coursework on a scholarship ..."

"They'll never let me," Jim shakes his head. "That's insane."

"Here," Pike releases him to rummage in his pockets, pulling out a flimsy, a San Francisco ID and a fistful of untraceable generic credits. "Take it and get out of here."

Jim throws an anxious glance at the house, only partially shielded by the street trees. "She doesn't know you're doing this."

"The scholarship exam is tomorrow morning, oh eight hundred at Starfleet Academy."

"I haven't said yes," Jim protests, but his hands have a mind of their own, stuffing the spoils of Pike's generosity into his jeans, shaking a little with the fresh surge of hope that floods him.

Pike grabs him into another fierce hug, crushing Jim's hands between them and pushing away so quickly that both of them stagger a little. "Go on, get out of here."

"Mom's going to kill you."

"She's welcome to try."

Jim scrambles to pull on his jacket as the front door slams again and running steps reach his ears. "I don't know what to say, I ..."

"Just get!" Pike is walking backwards, ready to head his mom off at the gate. "Take a bath and find something conservative to wear, there should be enough for that."

Jim nods, throwing a leg over the bike and throttling on just as his mom bursts into the street. In the single look he throws over his shoulder he sees that Chris has one arm around her waist, stopping her from doing something; what it is, he's never sure.

That night, Jim uses up all the credits on a cheap hotel room, a haircut and the first decent meal he's had in days. New clothes can wait; he sits that entrance exam in his dusty old jeans and creaky leather jacket, grinning at the point of his stylus as the answers fall into place. He hasn't been to school in four years, slept longer last night than the previous week put together and has absolutely no idea what he's doing, but he's a goddamn genius and he scores in the top third percentile.

The straight-laced recruiting officer who gives him the result looks shell-shocked. Jim just thanks her with a wink and a smirk, hardly caring that he's got a night of sleeping rough ahead of him. Tomorrow he'll have a Starfleet ID instead of a borrowed one, and a tenuous grasp on a future that offers some small hope of escape. Pike's charity still makes him uncomfortable, but for all his bravado, his ego's in pieces and he's not about to let this chance pass him by.

-:-

Spock generally prefers dictation software for both his professional and personal communications. So it is with some irony that he acknowledges the desire to physically type his letter to Jim at the very point in his life where such an action has been rendered impossible. It is thirty two days since his secondment aboard the _Tat'sar_ began and he is confined to quarters.

"Computer," he commands, voice hoarsened by the uncomfortable circumstance of being propped up by pillows. "Begin recording personal transmission."

 _Standing by._

"Recipient; Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk, EPAS vessel designation _Stalwart_."

 _James T. Kirk, identification nominally verified._

The door chimes.

Spock turns his head gingerly towards the sound. "Computer, pause recording. Open door."

 _Paused._

Seamlessly, the white panel recedes into the wall cavity and a young Vulcan scientist steps politely inside, allowing it to close automatically behind him. "Commander, the healer has requested a verification of your well-being," Eli says, somehow managing to convey a degree of apology in his perfectly emotionless words.

Spock glances down at his bandage-smothered hands and tries to ignore the fresh stab of pain generated by the movement. "You may report an incremental improvement in my condition. However, I fail to see why the healer discharged me from sickbay if his level of concern over my health is such that he requires updates on an almost hourly basis."

If Eli registers the frustration in that observation, he makes no sign. "In actual fact, the healer is increasingly confident of a functional rehabilitation. I sought the information for my own benefit."

Surprise chases away the other swirling emotions that have been plaguing him and Spock raises an eyebrow. "Your concern is unexpected."

Eli flicks the fingers of his left hand unconsciously, a thoroughly un-Vulcan gesture. "May I sit down?" he asks, neatly avoiding the question that wasn't quite a question.

"Of course."

"With your permission, I would seek clarification of your actions," he opens, once again a perfectly calm Vulcan paradigm.

"Pertaining to the manner of my injury?"

"I fail to comprehend the logic of attempting to stabilize a warp coil without proper protective equipment."

"There was insufficient time to procure it."

"The likelihood of death, let alone significant injury was approximately ..."

"I calculated a four point two percent chance of completing the repairs without harm," Spock interrupts, knowing the math and infinitely more comfortable with acknowledging it himself rather than being lectured about it.

Eli studies his face, dark eyes strangely luminous as the silence holds between them. Finally, his slender shoulders straighten and he blinks. "There were seventeen crew members present in Engineering at the time of the coil failure," he says at last. "The design of the ship is one heretofore unseen in this universe."

"Containment breach was imminent," Spock reminds him.

"You were unfamiliar with their equipment; there were many others better qualified to effect repairs."

"None of whom appeared to be doing so." He feels the rightness of his decision come over him once again; a peace born of certainty. "It is an incontrovertible truth that sentient beings hesitate when faced with life-threatening situations. There is no shame in their actions; it takes intensive training and practical experience to overcome that instinct. However, immediate action _was_ required."

"At what cost?"

Spock frowns. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one," he reminds the young scientist. "It is the Vulcan way."

"And yet, acting in direct contradiction of that tenet is what brought you to us," he challenges. "Or is it only singular _others_ who warrant such exceptions, not the singular self?"

Spock ought to be offended by the implication and the youngster's apparently intimate knowledge of the reasons for his secondment. He should probably be formulating a carefully emotionless reprimand and channeling any negative feelings into more constructive pathways. Instead, the entirety of his reaction is tethered to the past, embedded in the memory of his overwhelming need to _find Jim_ , no matter what the cost. It is not rage he feels, or mortification; it is a hollow sense of loss mixed with the rush of realization that this is what Jim does; this careless, reckless prostitution of self. It is ingrained in every illogically brilliant idea, every unthinkingly self-sacrificing action, every moment Jim extends himself beyond the reasonable to save a life.

Spock has the uncomfortable feeling he may be shaking, and worse, that it may be visible to Eli. "Leave me," he requests tightly.

"I apologize if I have given offense," the youngster wavers, already halfway to the exit. "I assure you it was not my intent."

"No," Spock says softly, far too preoccupied with his own thoughts. "No, of course not."

The door slides closed.

Spock sits for a long time, having nothing but the soft whisper of environmental controls and the tumult in his mind for company. Two hours pass as his thoughts chase themselves unproductively and his heart races, fluttering in his side. He disdains his analgesics and bronchodilators, leaving him with a deep physical pain and a sense of breathless heaviness, not unlike the rare moments he succumbed to tears as a child. He must make a choice.

-:-

Jessica Beimers-Pike flinches at the sound of something breakable striking the wall of her husband's office. She smiles blankly at the F-Sec official standing before her desk and pushes to her feet gracefully. "If you'll excuse me, sir?"

Without waiting for a response, she walks calmly to the double doors and slips between them, making sure to lock them behind her. Chris is leaning on his desk, fingers gripping the edge bloodlessly. Across the room, a picture frame lies shattered. She pointedly doesn't investigate which one he threw. Four years of marriage have taught her that he is indiscriminate in such moods, but it will still hurt if she finds it is the shot of them on the beach at Risa.

After giving him a few breaths to grow accustomed to her presence, she moves slowly across the room, her sensible heels tapping quietly against the polished floor. Her fingers with their blunt, practical nails find the nape of his neck and gauge the tension there. "Chris? What's happened?"

He clenches his jaw, visibly struggling with something. For a moment she fears another outburst, wondering which other memento will fall foul of whatever F-Sec or Starfleet idiocy has reduced him to this state, for surely the blame lies there. To her surprise, he crumples into the seat behind the desk, his one recalcitrant leg poking out at an awkward angle. He looks defeated. A thin tendril of anxiety begins to weave its way down her spine.

"Spock's been injured," he says gruffly, refusing to meet her eyes. "It's bad."

Wordlessly, she reaches out and takes his hand. His fingers weave around hers gratefully. "He's alive, then," she reminds him.

"I sent him there, Jess. Me. I sent him."

"You had no way of knowing this would happen."

Chris looks up, appearing stunned. "Do you know he's been an EPAS Point since he was twenty? That's almost a decade of putting himself on the line and he's never been so badly hurt as the moment I take him off it." His fingers clench and then unclench around hers, finishing with an apologetic pat. "I had to do something, be _seen_ to be doing something at the very least. I could have transferred him permanently, or done the same to Jim. Hell, I could have assigned him a desk, put him in charge of the entire Ops department, where you know he'd do brilliantly." He waves his free hand around airily, mocking himself. "But no, I have to keep him out there, don't I? Because with Spock and Kirk heading Prime Division _things get done._ " He punctuates each word with a jab of his finger into the desk. "They get done, Jess. You can't beat their save to loss ratios. They're hands down the best Point team in EPAS, but more than that, Prime Division scores better than any other in psych evals. McCoy gave me the figures before this whole Aspera thing went south, and they're remarkable. That crew, everyone on that damn ship, has been through hell and back twice over but they'd still go out again the moment those boys suit up."

She watches him stew in his own inner turmoil, notes the vein pulsing in his temple and the tight, angry set of his shoulders. "What do you need me to do?"

He starts nodding to himself, shallowly but with growing certainty. "Get me the _Stalwart_. They're going to find out somehow, but I'd rather it was through official channels."

One finger pressing into her earpiece, Jessica looks up. "What are you going to tell them?"

"Only thing I can tell them," he shrugs. "That Spock's alive. That Jim will be Acting DivCO a little longer."

"How will Jim react?"

"Badly."

-:-

 **-Incoming Transmission-  
Origin:** VSA Tat'sar, S'chn T'gai Spock, GCS vector: 20h 38m 12s, +42 01' 48"  
 **Datestamp:** 2262.1.14 local  
 **Status:** private correspondence  
 **Recipient:** Kirk, James T., Acting Divisional Commander USS Stalwart.  
 **Language:** Vulcan, Common. Translated: no.

 _Jim._

 _It is unlikely that I will be returning to the Stalwart. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am not able to impart this information in person, as would be my preference. The frequency with which Federation encryption is broken prevents me from clarifying a great many things, so I am forced to rely upon your previously expressed friendship, and trust that you will not see my decision as anything other than an operational necessity._

 _Serving with you has been most gratifying. Please pass on my regards to the crew, especially to those of shuttle ED996 and to our new Captain._

 _Spock._

 **-End Transmission-**

-:-

McCoy looks anxiously at Uhura's face when she lowers the PADD. Hell yeah, he could have just run it through the Universal Translator, he's not some backwater hick who doesn't know Vulcan text when he sees it, but it's pretty clear this is not going to be good news, and he prefers to hear that kind of thing from a human, not a machine.

"How bad is it?" he asks gruffly.

"I need to get up," she says, suddenly urgent. "Up, up, up, Leonard. Now."

"Your injuries ..."

"Where's Jim?" she demands fiercely. "If you can tell me where he is, I'll stay in bed."

Wordlessly, McCoy hands her a pair of slippers.

-:-

The gathered political mass of the Federation Security Council all rise. Pike follows suit, fingertips pressed into the table top for balance. President Wescott strides confidently down the aisle, a PADD held loosely in one hand. The last few months have aged him, etching more frown lines than laugh lines into his distinguished face. Pike only hopes he holds on long enough to see the end of this drawn out mess with Nero. He deserves that, for sticking to his guns against the naysayers. He knows the hopeless truth of their situation, but can't reveal it to the public, and it weighs on him in a way that Pike can relate to.

The President takes his seat and the room takes its cue in a wave of rustling fabric and shifting chairs.

The Speaker is the only one left standing. "The Council calls Acting Divisional Commander James T. Kirk."

Pike grits his teeth and leans towards his microphone. "Acting Commander Kirk is unavailable at this time, Mr. Speaker."

Floored, the Speaker looks to Wescott for guidance.

The President's face is slightly pained as he appeals to Pike with an open palm. "Where is he, Christopher?"

"Kirk has taken some personal leave, Mr. President."

Wescott breathes a long sigh through his nose. "You're telling me you don't know where he is."

"He's not obligated to give us an itinerary, sir."

The rest of the Council bristles, but the President just jerks his head over his shoulder. "We're taking a brief recess. Admiral Pike, a word?"

Pike collects his walking stick and PADD, accepting a brief pat on the hand from his wife as he awkwardly negotiates the slim gap between tables.

The President waits for him in the passageway. "My rooms," he commands, taking off at a pace that forces Pike to lean heavily on the stick to keep up.

"Ken, I ..."

"Not here," comes the sharp reply.

Pike closes his mouth with a snap. Sometimes it's still easy to forget they're not aboard the Kelvin together, both on the command track, both eager and naive. Neither could tolerate the 'Fleet infighting for long, or the lack of an exploration budget. Neither enrolled to be thugs or beat police, which is what most Constitution Class ships had become long before Nero appeared on the scene. Border tensions with the Klingons had transformed an idealistic peacekeeping armada into an overcautious, right wing military institution. Neither man wanted a piece of that, so Pike took his know-how and revolutionized EPAS, while Wescott formed an independent political party and ascended like a nascent star. Different lives, but driven by the same ideology.

Pike hobbles into the President's office and has the door closed behind him.

"Where the hell is he?" Wescott demands, wasting no time.

"I really don't know, Ken."

Wescott runs a hand down his face, pulling all the lines out of the skin only to have them reform in its wake. "This is very not good."

 _Very not good_ is code between them and Pike is forced to nod in agreement. "I know, believe me, I know."

"What are we going to do about this?"

Pike catches his old friend's eye and takes a deep breath. He's talked this over with Jessica and extracted promises from her that have broken both their hearts. He's emptied his bank account and brought in a few trusted people to redistribute some essential resources. Still, he hesitates, because he never thought to find himself in a situation like this. To be quite frank, it scares him and he's more than a little worried he's motivated by anger and revenge rather than desperation and ethics.

"Chris," the President says, drawing him back. "Everyone else might be content to imagine that 'Fleet can hold Nero off forever, or that the new peace with the Klingons isn't about them waiting to pick us apart once that crazy Romulan is done with us, but you and I know better. We have maybe two or three months before projections have Nero turning Earth into a gravitational blip, and that's only if he doesn't get tired of scaring the shit out of us by picking us apart stitch by stitch. It's psychological warfare at its best, but even crazy people get bored eventually. He _will_ come for us, he _will_ bring it to our doorstep and right now, we _will_ lose. We can't afford to let that happen."

"I do have an idea," Pike admits, "but it's going to get me thrown out of the service and you indicted or worse."

"Worse is being crushed to a singularity and watching my daughter and your wife come along for the ride."

Pike nods, feeling his heart clench. "I need a ship."

"You've got it."

"No," he shakes his head. "Not just any ship."

 

 


	34. chapter 6.2

It is an unusually hot day, even for _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ , when Admiral Christopher Pike appears at the domicile where Spock holds temporary residence. The Vulcan refugees have quite logically focused on establishing medical, educational and administrative centers as a first priority upon settling this planet, but have deemed residential climate control an unnecessary luxury. For full-blooded Vulcans, this is most likely true, even for those convalescing. Spock, however, is cursed by his human DNA to perspire lightly in the stifling midday heat. Although this physiological anomaly has always been accompanied by a sense of alienation, it is never more inconvenient than this particular day; his first exposure to such temperatures since his accident. Every drop of sweat is a stinging distraction.

Spock has traveled a long way to be exactly where he is. The journey required one VSA ship, a Starfleet shuttle, two civilian transports and a ground vehicle. The remnants of the Vulcan Science Academy had wished to catalogue his injuries and prognosis for their own intellectual gratification, but that alone could not have precipitated Spock's journey. Feeling isolated and vulnerable after cutting himself loose from EPAS, he simply could not withstand an invitation from a familiar face.

"Don't get up," Pike forestalls him, one hand outstretched, the other clutching the door frame.

"Admiral," Spock says by way of welcome.

"Jesus," Pike limps into the room, only one of his legs now encased in a caliper, the opposite hand wrapped around a single walking stick, "they let you travel in that state?"

Spock attempts to straighten, ignoring the pull of awkwardly-healing skin and the ticklish sensation of perspiration pooling at the base of his spine. "I may have failed to disclose the full extent of my discomfort."

"You may have," Pike echoes, eyeing him pointedly. "If I find out you're unfit for spaceflight ..."

The threat hangs empty in the hot air between them.

"Several experts from the Vulcan Science Academy have performed extensive tests upon my person," Spock says honestly, thinking Jim would be proud of his obfuscation, then is instantly forced to suppress an upswell of conflicting emotions. Pike only hums in reply, making him wonder if the Admiral's long-standing association with Jim has made his misdirection transparent.

"You wished to see me." Spock is being particularly blunt, but the pain that drives it is both physical and emotional. It overwhelms him. Perhaps this meeting is unwise.

"I did," Pike nods, then amends, "I do." He awkwardly takes the other seat at the small table, his supported leg extended to one side. "I need you back."

Spock's eyebrows shoot up of their own accord. "Lieutenant Commander Kirk ..."

"Jim resigned three weeks after you left," Pike cuts in. "I know things were difficult between you, but I'd really hoped you'd keep in touch."

"We exchanged only two communications, both of those during the first three weeks of my secondment."

The Admiral mops his brow with the sleeve of his EPAS blacks. "That will make finding the kid a whole hell of a lot harder."

Spock's jaw clenches involuntarily, but not even his training can save him from asking a question as necessary to him as breathing. "Jim is missing?"

Pike rolls his eyes and waves a hand. "He's certainly done his best."

"Please clarify."

"He caught the first thing heading the opposite way to the _Stalwart_ after that mess in the Horsehead Nebula, changed at a local Starbase and was never heard from again. No Federation planet has a record of his passport or his credit line. As far as F-Sec are concerned he's a possible defector. Me, I think he just decided to run away again, and Jim's good at that." He licks the sweat from his upper lip. "He's had plenty of practice."

Spock takes a few moments to absorb the information. He has deliberately avoided all the comm channels he used to subscribe to, all the circles and people who may casually mention EPAS, Prime Division or the young human who replaced him as DivCO. It felt like an act of self-preservation at the time; now it simply seems like cowardice.

"You have come a long way to tell me this, and to seek my reinstatement with EPAS," he says at last, in a voice he hardly recognizes. "Why?"

"Because the Federation needs you," Pike replies instantly. "It needs Jim, too, but more than that; it needs what the two of you can accomplish together. Spock, the people on the ground trust you guys. Now that your father signed them to the treaty, you've got a working relationship with the Klingons, plus the official Romulan Empire still owes you for that agricultural transport evac and every displaced nation with a warship adores you. These are things that Starfleet would _kill_ to have, and I do mean that in the literal sense. I'm surprised they haven't approached you already."

"They have," Spock admits. "I declined."

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Pike smiles for the first time since his arrival, a wry twist of the lips that speaks of affection and frustration in equal parts. "They probably offered you credits, command or promotion."

Spock inclines his head. "They did."

"Then they don't know you at all," Pike says, suddenly fierce. "They don't understand that there's only one thing that could make you come back."

Bowing to his insatiable sense of curiosity, Spock asks, "and that is?"

"The good of the many."

They stare at each other as the seconds tick away, the silence broken only by the low hum of insects, the flit of their wings against the windows. The heat is oppressive, weighing on Spock like the fatigue he can't seem to shake, the weakness that haunts him, the tightness that steals his breath. Pike's evaluation of his personality is flawless. Duty is the only thing that could motivate his direct involvement in military doings. Still, it is not quite as clear as the Admiral is implying.

"There has been no sign of Nero since Aspera. No battles, no use of Red Matter, no advancement beyond the Neutral Zone." Spock steeples his fingers and draws deeply upon his training. "Wherever Lieutenant Kirk may be, he is hardly at risk from Nero, if that is your intended motivation."

"It isn't," Pike says precisely, each word weighted with certainty. "I wanted you to know about Jim because I feel responsible for at least part of that mess, but it's not my primary reason for being here. Come back to Earth with me, let me show you what I know. If you still want to leave I'll make it so nobody bothers you again."

Spock has no doubt Pike can deliver on his promise. It may involve calling in every outstanding favor, but the Admiral will follow through, and it is the certainty of this that prevents Spock from refusing outright.

"If I did return with you, it would not indicate a commitment on my behalf or an intent to resume my commission," he hedges.

"Spock," Pike sighs, reaching out his hand across the table, "the chain of command is pretty pointless where we're going."

"And where is that?"

"Hell in a handbasket."

With a heavy heart and in a significant amount of pain, Spock leans back slightly in his chair, causing his knee to bump against the Admiral’s. It is the only non-essential physical contact he has experienced in more than two months.

-:-

Leonard McCoy has been many things in his life. As he's grown, changed, been disappointed and pleasantly surprised, usually by the same people, so he's come to realize the one thing you never really abandon is a friendship. Not if you're any kind of human being. So when Jim Kirk turns up on his doorstep with a split lip and a cocky smile, he knows to look deep enough to find the exhaustion behind it.

"Hey, Bones," he grins, licking his lips and studying the pavement. "You know I wouldn't ..."

"Get in here," Leonard interrupts, slinging an arm around him to suit action to words.

Jim sleeps for nearly ten hours, but only after he's been ordered into the shower. Leonard's a fairly tolerant person, believe it or not, but he's only got the place on loan and he doesn't relish explaining the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, booze and nameless women to his landlord. Unable to help himself, he checks on the kid now and then, even whipping out a tricorder once to make sure he isn't nursing a chronic case of dehydration or some heretofore unknown venereal disease. Jim doesn't even stir when McCoy trips over the kid's boots; kid’s that tired.

Leonard busies himself with domestic tasks: reading the paper and drinking coffee in the ground floor apartment's small courtyard. It's shared between tenants and he makes a point of giving the crotchety old lady across the way the evil eye. He's in no mood for a lecture about his caffeine intake.

The sun reaches its zenith, slips below the trees and fades into dusk while he organizes his holographic slide collection, answers a very pointed email from Admiral Pike and tries to find the motivation to start dinner preparations. It would be easier if he knew how many to cook for. Finally, his natural pragmatism wins out over sentiment and he shakes Jim awake with the toe of his boot.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. You want enchiladas or refried beans?"

Jim blinks blearily up at him, swiping at his crazy hair, no longer regulation length. "Jesus, they're my only options?"

"Ingrate."

Jim eats like a starving man, shovelling the beans into his mouth when McCoy knows full well they're hot enough to burn. The kid catches him watching and forces himself to slow down. Leonard doesn't like the implications. Jim Kirk doesn't ask for charity, and it sits ugly on him.

"You went home to Iowa," he says. It's not a question.

"Nearly," Jim admits. "Made it as far as county limit then chickened out."

"Bet your mom was pissed."

"You have no idea."

"What birthday was it?" McCoy can read a calendar as well as the next man.

The kid wipes his mouth and then licks his thumb. "Twenty nine? Twenty eight?"

"For god's sake, what year were you born? Do the freaking math."

Jim blinks. "Twenty seven," he says. "Huh."

"Take my advice and don't get ahead of yourself." He collects Jim's plate and heads to the kitchen. "Seconds?"

"Yeah, awesome."

McCoy shakes his head. "Who says that anymore?"

"I do."

Leonard doesn't bother pressing it. Instead, he asks the question that's been burning in the back of his mind since he left Jim sprawled on the sickbay floor only to find him disappeared from the _Stalwart_ less than an hour later. "Did you go looking for him?"

"For Spock?" Jim clarifies with unexpected candor. "Yeah, I went looking. For all the good it did me." He licks his teeth and shrugs in a poor approximation of nonchalance. "He didn't want to be found; made that pretty clear, actually. Nobody refuses all incoming transmissions for days on end. He was there on the _Tat'sar_ ; I know that much because I hacked the VSA subspace beacon."

"Jim!"

"Oh, can it. I've done worse and you know it. Point is, Pike may have sent him away, but Spock clearly didn't want to talk to me." He pins McCoy with a look that closes that line of conversation.

McCoy can't quite believe that, not after the tentative conversations he's had with the rest of Nix Alpha and senior Prime Division crew. Initially, there'd been a lot of hesitance, a lot of 'maybe it's just me, but ...' However, that soon gave way to the realization that Jim and Spock's secret wasn't all that secret after all. The fierce protectiveness of Prime Division had gagged all but the most insatiable gossip-mongers, but people still spoke in quiet corners, still exchanged glances and smiled when the DivCO and his Point One shared something that might almost be called a smile, or brushed elbows, or simply watched each other with quiet intensity. McCoy has difficulty imagining Spock willingly shutting himself off from that, but then he remembers T'Loren and the strange things Vulcans do when love is lost. He hopes for Jim's sake that there was more to it than simple rejection.

"Jim, Pike _did_ say something about Spock being off the active duty list; something about an injury ..." he tries, thinking back to the day Jim left and Pike had to somehow glue a floundering command structure together again, humpty-dumpty style, from whoever he could pull from other areas.

"He sent me the last comm _after_ that happened," Jim counters, sounding bitter, "and then everything bounced. I assume you read it, since you and Uhura did your best to track me down. Screw you for going through my personal correspondence, and double screw you for making me ditch 'Fleet transport lanes, I _hate_ traveling on cargo ships."

"Hey!" McCoy spreads his hands, defensive. "Spock was injured, he sent you a comm, you got shitfaced and then up and disappeared! What were we supposed to do? Assume the best?"

"I heard about the _Stalwart_ ," Jim says after a beat, apropos of nothing.

"Oh, did you just?”

He nods, fork suddenly dangling from limp fingers as he stares at the tablecloth. "I was on a Starbase. Perhaps if I'd been there ..."

"You’d have done what, exactly?" Leonard sets a second helping on Jim's plate and slouches low in his chair, waiting while his frustration wars with his guilt.

"So are we good, then?" Jim looks up, a little desperation leaking into his eyes.

"I'm not the kind of asshole who holds a man responsible for something that happens when he isn't even there," he says, rather fiercely. "You got out because you had to; a blind man could see that. I just wish you'd told me where you were going, is all."

"I didn't know where I was going."

"Yeah, you did."

"I feel bad about Harris," he redirects again.

"Harris didn't deserve a captaincy."

"Then I feel bad for the crew."

"They're just worried about you and Spock."

Jim flinches at the mention of the Vulcan's name and McCoy pretends not to notice. "How long will you all be dirtside?"

The doctor purses his lips, estimating. "Another month perhaps? That's those of us who don't get snapped up by other Divisions or ships. Thanks to that crazy-assed Romulan, we’re down to less than forty percent of our operational readiness, so you know how it is."

"Yeah," Jim nods. "Yeah, I know how it is."

After the dishes are done, they each nurse a single beer out in the courtyard. Night is closing in and winter isn't far enough away for the air to stay warm for long. Jim's stoic refusal to shiver is making McCoy feel old, but damned if he's going inside to fetch a sweater. They pointedly don't talk, just let the silence settle like the evening proper, sheltering them from the memory of the _Stalwart_ and the aftermath of Aspera.

"You want another?"

Jim looks up from peeling the label from his empty. "No," he says carefully. "I've had enough."

Something in his eyes suggests he's talking about a whole lot more than alcohol, but McCoy knows better than to push. Whatever went down, whatever tore him up, the doctor knows full well he was only on the periphery. He, better than anyone, has an inkling of what the kid's gone through in his life, what he's capable of enduring. He's also intimately familiar with the pain that comes from letting someone close enough to hurt you when they leave.

"Want to talk about it?" he offers, already knowing what the answer will be.

Jim shakes his head, eyes focused on the nail he's digging into the glue. "I don't think so, not just now." He flicks the last remnant of the label into the bushes. "But thanks."

"Sure thing."

-:-

McCoy tries not to be worried that Jim disappears the next morning. He's left his motorcycle in the public parking and his favourite shirt balled up on the floor in the bathroom, so it's good money he's coming back at some point. About lunch time, Leonard admits to himself that trying not to worry is doubly exhausting as _actually_ worrying and sets to work on a bit of a project he's got going on in the courtyard.

Jim saunters in around four, leather jacket slung over his shoulder and a look on his face like thunder.

"Can you give me a hand with this?" McCoy demands, wiping his soil-covered hands on his faded blue jeans.

Jim looks sceptically at the small area he's cleared for the vegetable garden and the lattice work he's trying to affix to the wall. "It would work better if you made it an isosceles instead of an equilateral triangle. That would shift the center of gravity towards your attachment points and reduce the load on those flimsy-ass screws you're holding."

"See!" snaps the elderly woman from across the way. "I told you so!"

Jim gives her a casual salute before raising an eyebrow at McCoy.

"Latisha, Jim Kirk. Jim Kirk, Latisha," the doctor drawls.

"Jesus H. Christ, Leonard!" the woman shouts, "is that going to be finished before the growing season is over?"

"If she doesn't watch it," McCoy says under his breath, voice tight from the strain of lifting the lattice, "I'll finish _her_ long before then."

Jim snorts once, fumbles his grip on the woodwork and then starts laughing. The sound is deep and rich, like it's being pulled from the depths of him, like it's been hidden too long and just has to break free. He presses the back of his hand against his lips, smothering the sound. McCoy swears as their project topples over with a crash, earning them further recriminations from Latisha, but he couldn't care less, not when Jim is actually cracking a smile.

Of course, that feeling changes when Jim's face contorts and the tears in his eyes spill over, no longer the product of amusement. He sobs once, presses the hand harder against his mouth, stepping back to let the wall take his weight.

"Ah, shit," McCoy sighs, moving swiftly forward to gather him into a tight hug.

They stand like that for a while, Jim working on his breathing and Leonard kind of at a loss with Latisha staring at him so intently. Whatever this is, it's something new. McCoy knows a thing or two about the many flavors of grief and this is acute, not chronic.

"Sam and Aurelan," Jim manages finally, his voice tear-filled and hoarse. "They were on that transport from Deneva, you remember the news?"

He pulls back, has to look Jim in the face for this, because of course he remembers. "What are you _talking_ about?"

"They're dead, Bones."

"But ..."

"We told the damn Council that the border worlds weren't safe anymore, I stood there as Spock told those bastards exactly who was at risk, and yet they _still_ tried to operate civilian transport like the Klingons don't even exist!" He swipes at his eyes angrily. "What the fuck did they think would happen now that the Fleet has closed down harder in the Eridani sector? The Klingons are fragmented, disorganized. Not all of them will be bound by that treaty, especially with Nero still riding them just as hard. Didn't Robicon teach FSec anything?"

"God, Jim ..."

"I have a nephew, did you know that?" he continues like McCoy hasn't spoken. "Peter survived the initial attack long enough to find his way to a lifepod and then got piked by Prime Division almost forty eight hours later. Forty eight hours," Jim repeats, laughing weakly, "when the Division was less than ten hours away at full warp. Where the _fuck_ was the leadership?"

"Where's the boy now?" Leonard asks, trying to focus on the only available positive.

"Oh, you're going to love this," Jim laughs viciously, breaking out a trademark grin and nodding to himself. "Guess who my brother made guardian? Go on, guess," he smirks, pushing off the wall and into McCoy's personal space.

Leonard can feel the air turn hostile, knows that Jim's desperate for an outlet, spoiling for a fight. He opens his hands, palms out at his sides in peaceful surrender. "I don't know, kid, why don't you tell me?"

"Our mother, of course," he crows, sniffing back the tears that still course down his face. "Winona fucking Kirk. She gets a chance to screw with the next generation. Full credit to Sam who's not only dead, but also a total dipshit for thinking she is in any way better than a fucking foster home. I should know," he qualifies, chewing his lip and shaking his head, "I got to try both kinds of crazy."

McCoy just stands there, floored, his hands still splayed because now he has nothing to close them on, nothing to offer.

Jim's eyes travel up and down as he nods to himself. "Yeah," he says, sniffing defiantly. "Don't worry, there _are_ no fucking words. I'll be seeing you."

There is absolutely nothing Leonard can do except watch Jim snatch up his keys and his helmet on his way out the door. It's only when the roar of the motorcycle fades that he remembers Jim's favorite shirt, lying discarded in the bathroom. He doesn't like the way that feels.

He's not entirely sure how long he stands there, the wet earth drying on his jeans and under his fingernails. However long it is, it can never be long enough. He's roused by the tinkle of china near his elbow. Looking down, he finds Latisha clutching a cup of dark coffee. Her claw-like fingers are shaking, their scarlet-painted nails curled around the delicate dish like talons as she offers it up.

Leonard takes it from her in a daze, just holding it at chest height without saying a word.

"You can't be all bad," she announces stiffly, "if he came to you with shit like that."

"You've got a potty mouth, ma'am," he tells her, hardly thinking about the words.

"Like you care," she huffs, tightening her brightly-coloured scarf as though it might offer her some added degree of respectability.

"Thank you," he says, meeting her keen eyes, "for the coffee."

"You going to finish that tomato trellis?" she challenges, scowling again.

"Yes, ma'am. Right after I make a very important phone call."

"You do that, son."

-:-

In orbit on Luna Station, Christopher Pike accepts a transmission from a man he's been trying to get face-time with for quite a few weeks.

"Admiral, sir."

"Doctor McCoy," he smiles warily. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The doctor is clad in a white singlet, liberally smeared with dirt and sawdust, but the part of the puzzle that matters to Christopher is the look on his face; like someone just told him the sun circles the earth. Pike is already counting this conversation as a win.

"You remember when you asked me if I'd heard from Jim?"

"I remember."

"I didn't approve then, of what you were trying to do," the doctor swallows, "of what you were asking us to sacrifice."

"I know you didn't," Pike says gently. "I'm not overly fond of the idea myself, but we're out of options."

"I think you might be right." McCoy swallows and licks his lips. "About the plan … and about Jim."

Pike leans forward, his elbows on the desk. "I wish I could say I was glad to hear that."

"I want you to know that you can count on me," McCoy falters, eyes glancing off screen for a second. Whatever they find out of Pike's line of sight, it softens the sternness in his gaze. "I've got a daughter. She's twelve next month and I..."

Pike holds up a hand, cutting him off. "You don't owe me an explanation. Whatever your reasons, all I need now is your word."

McCoy nods firmly. "You've got it."

"Okay," Pike nods, feeling the first tendrils of relief curl in his gut. "Okay then."

The doctor shifts uncomfortably. "What do you need me to do?"

"Leave it to me for the moment," Pike says reassuringly, not wanting to push too hard or too fast, but also acutely aware of the open comm line they are using. "I've got a few things to organize. Just don't skip town."

"Understood."

"Oh, and Leonard?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Which way is Jim headed?" From the slight twitch of McCoy's lips, Pike knows he's scored points by knowing the kid that well.

"West," the doctor says easily. "For the moment."

"Thank you."

"Don't make me regret this."

-:-

 _Jim gets them through the remainder of the day after Spock's resignation. He pow-wows with the big wigs and begs, borrows, steals whatever they need to make the refugee camp on Aspera workable again. Nobody questions how he manages it, or the reason behind his single-bloody-mindedness, they just follow orders and report back promptly, with a little sympathy in their eyes. Even that is too much._

 _He guides them competently and unemotionally through the train wreck of Federation politicking until the Robii have the legal right to stay on Aspera as long as they want. Then he signs his own resignation, throws his books and his leather jacket into a bag and gets trashed in sickbay. He tries to ignore the shocked look from the Ensign manning the shuttle bay and hops the next transport away from there. He does answer one last comm, but never even hears what Pike is trying to tell him, just cuts him off right after the word 'Spock.'_

 _He's not quite sure what he's going to; all he knows is that nothing about where he is makes sense anymore. Regardless, that thought doesn't prepare him for the view of the Stalwart from the outside, hung suspended in space, resplendent and white against the starry backdrop of black. Something wrenches in his gut, falls away implacably, irretrievably, and for the first time he knows the panic that comes with being the one who leaves._

Jim wakes with a jolt, heart hammering in the darkness, obsessed with the certainty that everything is wrong. Just so incredibly wrong. His breath comes in gasps, fingers scrabbling for his watch, as he brings it to his face. Oh two thirty.

"Fuck," he gasps into the pillow. "Jesus, fuck."

He flips onto his back and lies there listening to his heart rate slow and settle. There's a crack of light from under the door, but it's from the hall light left on so people can find the shared bathroom, not from the sun. Hotels suck, but none more than roadhouses. Now that he's awake, he can hear the slow creaking and muffled moaning of two people screwing in the room beside his. The thought of it makes him nauseous and he can't believe he'd managed to get drunk enough to consider sex with a random stranger. That one attempt had ended with a fist in his gut and spit on his face because there is a difference between wanting to be with someone stronger than you and hooking up with some douche who just likes to watch people hurt.

All at once, he can't be in the dark anymore.

Crossing the room in his underwear, he flicks the light on and feels instantly better under its antiseptic glow. Angrily, he pulls his jeans on, jumping on the spot to get his feet through the cuffs, then zips them and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Feet get stamped into boots but laces are ignored. He sweeps his keys and his wallet into his helmet and makes it out into the night so fast it's like he's never even been there.

Heading west is drenched in too many unpleasant memories.

-:-

Spock sits awkwardly on two cushions, limbs too stiff to allow him his customary limber ease on the meditation mat. Ostensibly, he is sleeping. Pike certainly believes that to be the case, but lying comes more easily to Spock with every passing day. He lies about his pain, about his equanimity and about his commitment to Pike's plan. He does not know if he will stay, if he will do as Pike wishes. He shall not be certain until he reaches a decision on the one matter he cannot and will not lie about; whether he is willing to do this with or without Jim; whether he will be the one to ask, or if Pike has to do it himself.

Spock is honestly incapable of calculating which approach offers the greatest statistical likelihood of success. What he is now familiar with are the dire circumstances facing the Federation, and planet Earth in particular. He has had the entire return journey from _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ to process the Intelligence feeds from the Federation Security Council.

So he sits in the darkness and stares at the twinkling lights of the San Francisco skyline, trying to make an emotionless decision … and failing abysmally.

-:-

Derek owns a small car dealership with a garage in a not-so-great part of San Francisco. He doesn't have delusions of grandeur, he just likes cars. And bikes. Actually, he doesn't really like bikes at all, but his customers do, so he does them anyway.

He looks up from his workbench one Thursday morning to find a space-pale, hard-bitten looking kid with the bluest eyes he's ever seen and pressure marks from a helmet framing his face.

"Hey," the kid says easily, openly. "You Derek? Your girl at the front desk said I ought to ask here about work."

Derek instantly revises his estimate of the kid's age up a few years. Confidence like that is earned over time, not granted to the young. "I don't have a lot on right now. Not sure what I could offer you."

"That's fine by me," the kid shrugs, lean muscles bunching in his shoulders. "I'll take what you've got on a commission basis. I don't need a guaranteed figure provided you don't need a long term contract."

"I don't offer casual work."

The kid's eyes narrow. "I'll finish everything I start and I'll give a week's notice."

Derek isn't naive and he isn't easily duped. This kid is telling the truth, he's certain of it, and at the end of the day he _could_ use an extra pair of hands around the place most of the time. He hasn't been able to afford someone on contract.

"You're on," he says, "but only provided you can tell me what it is I'm doing here."

The kid cranes his neck and examines the mechanism Derek has laid out on the bench. Even upside down and in pieces it takes the kid all of five seconds to say, "you're replacing the baffles on a G-type injection system for a Ballieu or a Tornado."

"You can't put this in a Tornado," Derek scoffs.

"Can too," the kid grins, cocky as hell, "and it gives you both a higher rpm and a better fuel economy, because this system might be designed just the same, but Ballieu assembles on Mars Colony rather than shipping in complete from Persus like Tornado do, and we all know how cold perishes the o-rings on these babies in shorter than you can say 'I wish I'd bought a Ballieu.'"

Derek feels the warm glow that comes with knowing he's in the presence of an honest engine enthusiast. He wipes his oily palm down his overalls and holds it out. "Derek Simcock."

The kid takes it and shakes it firmly. "Jim Kirk. Okay if I start now?"

"Knock yourself out."

 


	35. chapter 6.3

It's a rainy day in San Francisco when Spock makes up his mind. The streets are dark with moisture even though the skies are holding back the deluge, saving it for those walking home after work. He finds the auto mechanic he's looking for on the corner of Fourth and Ryan, its sign brightly lit against the gloom. His pace quickens instinctively and he does not try to curb it. Today is about abandoning strictures, about humbling himself. He theorizes that the process has begun long before this moment and attempting to curtail the effects at this late stage is counter to his primary goal.

He has come to ask a question to which he fears the answer, though the shame he ought to feel at such an admission is all but absent.

The interior of the garage is adequately lit and it takes him no more than a few seconds to recognize Jim in profile, bent over the drive train of a classic vehicle, overalls smeared with grease just like his arms. Several people stop and stare as Spock makes his way over, but none of them attempt to question a Vulcan. There is a radio on somewhere. He makes note of the timbre and sound quality, then abstractly identifies the source as a pre-warp valve type amplification device. Its presence does not surprise him. Jim has always had a penchant for antiquities.

"Jim."

Kirk stills, his hands hovering over the object of his labors, his back turned. Spock sees him take a deep breath and exhale before he turns, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the bench.

"Hey," he acknowledges with a nod and brief eye contact. "Long time no see."

"Indeed."

The silence holds for a few moments, long enough for Spock to take in the fact that Jim looks healthy, if haunted. There's a tightness around his eyes that belies the casual pose and longer hair. He is still lean, still built like a Point: strong but not heavy.

"I wish to speak with you privately."

Jim tilts his head, considering. "No."

Spock has expected this, but still, pain blossoms in his chest. He cannot suppress it "Once you would have accepted readily enough."

"Once I would have enjoyed it."

Spock swallows and asks softly, "does what we shared mean so little to you?"

Jim seems forced to blink rapidly. He presses his lips together so hard they blanch and he shakes his head firmly. "No, of course not. Shit, I'm sorry. Come on, the roof is probably best."

Spock allows himself to be led, tries not to lean into the firm hand on his elbow, struggles to separate the many reasons that have brought him here and finds it impossible. The words clamor in his throat, he feels choked by them, so much so that when they burst out onto the roof, its surface sodden and strewn with puddles, he cannot formulate a sentence. This planet's cold air is painful to breathe, like knives in his raw lungs.

Jim wanders a few steps away, hands jammed into the pocket of his overalls, head down, staring at the place where he's scuffing one shoe against the ground. "You had something to say?" he prompts, turning and looking up.

Spock nods and swallows heavily. He tastes blood. This is harder than he thought it would be, harder than Pike told him it would be. He cannot do this. He is incapable. There is simply not enough human in him or not enough Vulcan to…

"Spock." It's Jim's voice, closer now. When had he moved? There's a steadying hand on his shoulder, concern in those blue eyes. "What happened to your face?"

Spock realizes he's breathing hard, like he's been running, and feels that way, too. "I have come to ask..." he begins, forcing it through the tightness in his throat. "Admiral Pike is commissioning a new ship. He has put your name forward as the most suitable candidate for captaincy."

" _My_ name?" Jim's eyebrows meet above the bridge of his nose. "My name and not yours?"

Spock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand, unaware that his face also shows how little he wants the appointment. "I do not wish it for myself. To serve in Starfleet has never been my goal. For you, however..."

"Damn it!" Jim throws his hands up and then runs them through his hair. His body is tense, wound tight. "I told Pike when I started this gig that I was done with those idiots. I'm not about to turn around and throw myself in with them, not after what happened on Deneva, how can they even _think_ that?"

"It was I who ratified the Admiral's nomination." Spock does not understand how Deneva is particularly relevant, being one event in a long line of administrative deficiencies and command missteps.

"You?" Jim's voice is whisper tight and venomous, castigating him for his betrayal. His lips pull back over his teeth, expression feral in his anger. "You thought I'd agree to this? You thought I'd go to work for those bastards, after what they did? After Sam and Aurelan and ..." his voice breaks and he struggles visibly.

The wave of his grief washes over Spock through the gossamer thin connection they have come to share; less than a bond, more than a simple compatibility. It twists his gut and makes him nauseated. He knows this grief even though the source of it is a mystery. He feels the chasm within himself that reciprocates and empathizes, however unwillingly. He raises his eyes, cannot know that they are haunted. "I was not informed of your loss, but I grieve with thee," he whispers.

Jim pulls in a shaky breath, perhaps relaxing into the resonance between them. "I know," he admits, deflating. He grips Spock by the shoulder again in a gesture of solidarity, of forgiveness. "I can't explain how, but I know you do."

"The military situation exceeds personal losses," Spock presses on, knowing that if he does not speak now he will not find the means necessary. Already he is weakened, both emotionally and physically. "Starfleet has entered a time of crisis. Nero's fleet grows by the day, absorbing remnants from the extant Romulan military. It is only a matter of time before he sets his sights on Earth. This time, with Starfleet preoccupied with the constant skirmishes, the probability of prevailing against a concerted attack is less than fifteen point six percent." Spock pauses to breathe, dizzy. He cannot control the concern that twists his features, making straight lines of his normally acute eyebrows. "Less than fifteen percent, Jim."

"Son of a bitch," Kirk breathes, fingers flexing where they rest on Spock's heavy coat. "Do they know about this, the Admirality?"

"They have been informed of the likelihood."

"And their response?"

"Fortification."

"Fortification!" Jim snorts. "They have no idea who they're dealing with, do they? After all this time, they still don't understand." Jim looks up, his stance changing from defensive to entreating. "You know he's not going to stop, Spock, don't you? You know he doesn't care what he leaves behind just so long as everyone else is hurting along with him. You understand that."

"I believe you," Spock admits, despite having none of Jim's apparently instinctive certainty.

"If we can see it, why can't they?"

"Perhaps..." Spock falters once again, the uncharacteristic behaviour drawing a concerned expression from Jim. "Perhaps, like me, they do not appreciate the necessity of proper action to alleviate potential adverse outcomes." Jim's fingers tighten painfully but he does not pull away. Spock wants him to stay, needs him to listen. "Perhaps, like me, they fear the consequences of their actions so greatly that they render themselves incapable of acting appropriately."

"Spock ..."

"No." He silences Jim with a shake of his head. "I have wronged you, and for that I am truly sorry."

"I think understand your reasons," Jim offers softly.

Spock raises his head, dark eyes wide and honest. "You cannot."

"Let me try?" he asks surprisingly, his thumb brushing across Spock's collarbone soothingly through the thick fabric. "Help me?"

"Admiral Pike and Doctor McCoy believe you will not accept the nomination," Spock tells him, deliberately redirecting.

"What makes you think I will?" Jim presses, but there's a teasing note to it that Spock has missed, oh so much.

"I know you," he says simply, with an almost imperceptible shrug. "You will do what is right."

"What makes you so sure? About me, of all people."

"It is not rational," he confesses, head spinning disconcertingly. "I can offer no logical explanation. I simply know that you are capable of this."

"That easy?" Jim pushes, a note of desperation in his voice, as though such faith is vital to him.

Spock looks him in the eye with unwavering concentration, and sees a shiver run up Jim's spine. He wonders how he ever walked away from such a feeling, can't fathom how he felt threatened by it. "Jim, you are capable of doing whatever needs to be done."

"You're smarter than me, more experienced than me. Why don't you do it and I'll be your Point One?"

Spock shakes his head and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "I cannot be what they want. It must be you."

"Fate, Spock?" Jim laughs, incongruous amidst the tension. "You?"

"Simple logic," Spock tells him.

"What can't I do as a Point? As a DivCO?"

"EPAS is close to failing," Spock tells him as gently as possible. "The infrastructure is damaged beyond repair. The leadership is reduced to in-fighting and pointless bickering since F-Sec assumed control. It is only through President Wescott's patronage that Pike has been able to commission a vessel to replace the damaged _Stalwart_."

"I..." Jim lets his hand fall away. "I had no idea it was so bad."

"Nero will come for Earth," Spock says earnestly. "He will aim to destroy the last remaining seat of the Federation. He will bring his fleet and his Red Matter and he will suck this planet inside out just as he did with Vulcan." His face flickers with remembered grief, quickly masked. "Will you do nothing?" he asks, voice slightly too desperate. "Will you let him take your home, your world, as he did mine?"

Jim raises cold blue eyes to Spock's face and smirks without a trace of good humour. "He's sure as hell not getting it without a fight."

Spock nods, exhausted by the appeal. He passes a hand across his brow and realizes it is shaking. Jim notices, of course he does. His hands reach up to frame Spock's face, thumbs resting on his high cheekbones, fingers splayed against his neck, and it's almost too much contact, so long desired.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I wouldn't let you in. I'm sorry I couldn't turn to you when I know you wanted me to. It's just, the mindmeld and," his face contorts and there's a flash of anger, "I'm not used to having anyone to...I'm not used to having..."

Spock steps forward and envelops him in a crushing hug, Vulcan-strong. "Please endeavour to become accustomed."

Jim laughs and his hands come up to fist in the back of Spock's coat. "Don't let's do this again, okay?" he chuckles, muffled by Spock's shoulder. "The sappy reunion will kill my macho image."

Spock doesn't say anything, but surely Jim must know that particular gust of air against his neck is a laugh. It's a pity, really, that it turns into a cough, and when Jim pulls back to examine him at arm's length, sees the green tinge of blood on his lips.

"What the _hell?_ "

"Do not be alarmed," Spock insists. "It is only that I have walked too far today."

"Where did you walk from? The _moon?_ " Jim's eyes are wide with concern.

"Jim," Spock stills him with the gentleness in his tone. "There was an accident."

Something fierce ghosts across those expressive blue eyes, then Spock is being gripped by firm hands and eased back in the direction of the stairs. "You're coming with me, and I'm calling Bones."

  
-:-

  
Much to Jim's disgust, Bones is off-planet on some bullshit errand for Pike, so Jim has to settle with the Fleet Academy's on-call doctor. He drives a hovercar borrowed from Derek, rationalizing that any Vulcan coughing blood probably shouldn't ride pillion on a motorbike.

After two hours in the waiting room, Jim explodes to his feet. "Sweet Jesus, somebody get me a goddamn doctor right now!"

His unorthodox methods prove effective, especially after he mentions Admiral Pike's name. They are seen in less than ten minutes.

Spock tries to focus on the questions they ask him, tries to provide more than monosyllabic responses to those questions, but Jim's very presence distracts him. Kirk is a bundle of tightly controlled energy, wrapped in his own arms, the fingers of one hand pressed against his lips as though to stop himself from butting in. Pressure builds in Spock's chest, bleak like something unrequited, more painful than he remembers. He is overcome by the knowledge that he will not cope if Jim wants to settle for less than everything they can be. He will not be able to bear it.

In the end, Spock coughs up a fistful of green right in front of the nurses and they admit him on the spot. The last thing he sees before they put him under is Jim standing protectively in front of him saying, "you're not laying a finger on him until you talk to Doctor Leonard McCoy. That's big 'M,' little 'c'..."

  
-:-

  
"It's not entirely their fault, Jim."

He directs haggard eyes at McCoy over the rim of his coffee. "Whatever."

"Most doctors aren't used to treating lungs that have been subjected to that much decompression scarring." He shrugs, pouting through his three day growth. "Even then, you'd have to know what to look for. Spock isn't exactly your run of the mill type Vulcan."

"Remind me again how much blood you drained from his lungs?"

"Now, Jim ..."

"How much?" Kirk's tone is uncompromising.

"One point two litres," McCoy admits grudgingly. "He's lucky you took him to the hospital when you did. Only sheer stubbornness was keeping him upright, that's for sure."

Jim gesticulates with his hands, spilling hot coffee over his wrist and not even blinking. "And those idiots on the _Tat'sar_ thought it was okay to discharge him? Pike fucking _sent_ him after me, the asshole."

"He _is_ a complicated case."

"No," he shakes his head vehemently. "It's dead simple. They fucked up. Dammit, I fucked up."

McCoy reaches across and taps the younger man in the front of his greasy t-shirt. "I won’t sit by and listen to you blame yourself for this," he snarls. "Spock is an adult, capable of looking after himself."

"Then why do I feel guilty?" Jim's eyes are clouded with dark emotion and he's breathing heavily through his nose.

"Because with you, it's always so damn dramatic," he spits, accent heavy with the anger he feels. "You take on the weight of the world and then act surprised when it doesn't turn out to be one great frat party." He leans forward to put elbows on knees across the low waiting room coffee table. "I know you, and you're about to do one of two stupid things. One," and he starts ticking them off on his fingers, "you're going to turn tail and run, and we all know how well that worked out for you last time."

"I've been okay," Kirk protests.

"No, you haven't," Bones corrects him perfunctorily. "Two," he presses his index fingers together, "you're going to rush straight into this hare brained scheme that pointy eared bastard and Pike have concocted to get us back in space."

Jim shifts uncomfortably.

"Aha, so it's two, then." Bones leans back and runs a hand through his messy hair. "Jesus, Jim, don't you think you ought to at least have your options fully explained before you pick one? What's with this urge to leap before you look?"

"There's more at stake here than what I want." Jim's voice is quiet, but firm. "Don't come over all innocent on me, you're in this up to your eyeballs. Jesus, Bones, sometimes there _are_ no options."

"Take it from me, kid, there are _always_ options."

Jim glances through the window where several nurses are fussing over Spock and thinks how much the Vulcan would hate the lack of privacy. "I've got to get him out of here," he mutters. "As soon as he's stable. You'll stop by and check up on him, right?"

"Jim," McCoy's frustration is evident. "Spock's in no condition to go anywhere. It'll be at least a day, more likely two. Why don't you call Pike and see what he has to say about your captaincy?"

Kirk gives him an incredulous look.

"What?" McCoy asks, visibly offended. "Just because I'm a doctor I can't know things?"

  
-:-

  
Jim's never been one for comming someone when a good old fashioned face-to-face will do, so he gets Bones to drive the borrowed car back where it came from, ignores the curses about how the doctor's going to get home from _there_ , and only stops past his place to shower and shave before jumping on his bike and gunning it over to the spaceport.

One hour later, he's stalking through Pike's outer office, ignoring the protestations of his pretty wife.

"Is he in, Jessica?" Jim puts his shoulder to the heavy door. "I'll just see if he is, yeah?"

Pike glares at him over the desk terminal, clearly in the middle of a conference call. The raised hand outside the field of view clearly conveys the need for silence under threat of imminent death. Jim manages to restrain himself, because for what he means to do, he actually needs Pike onside.

With a few deft pleasantries, Pike signs off and leans back in his chair, a long-suffering look on his face. "Why don't you come in?"

"Hey, you've been doing your best to get me in here for quite a while, I thought you'd be happy to see me," Jim smirks. All his anger, all his shock is laced with self-recrimination. If only he'd taken one call from Pike, picked up one newscast, listened to one rumour, perhaps he'd be in control of this situation and not the other way around. He has to sleep in this bed of his own making, but at least he's got guilt for company.

"I did everything but offer you your own planet to rule over, so please explain why you've finally graced headquarters with your presence?"

"You're the one who sent Spock after me, so don't insult my intelligence. He's in hospital now, did you know that?" It's a cruel opening, but the only ace up his sleeve so he has to play it and play it hard.

Pike's angry confidence slips just enough. "On Luna?"

"No," Jim shakes his head, unsurprised to learn that Pike has been trying to keep tabs on him. "San Francisco, the Academy HDU. Those idiots on the _Tat'sar_ nearly killed him, letting him bounce between ships and then breathe Earth normal atmo so soon after having his _lungs ripped to shreds_. Was anybody planning on telling me about that, by the way?"

Pike runs a hand down his face, a little pale. "You're not his keeper, son. He's going to be all right?"

"Yeah, ‘cause I'd be standing here talking to you if there was the _slightest_ chance that ..."

"Okay, okay," Pike soothes. Then, in a more commanding tone, "take a seat, Jim."

"Sir..."

"I said, sit down."

Jim sits before he's thought about it, the crack of authority in Pike's voice acting on him like a puppeteer. If he wasn't so shaken at heart it would have really pissed him off.

"First things first," Pike begins. "Nobody told you Spock was injured because when the comm went out you were dead set on not being an EPAS employee anymore. Hell, since then you've not even been on the radar, so don't pull that self-righteous bullshit on me. If you'd still been DivCO, you'd have known. If you'd listened to the whole of my call, you'd have known."

The unspoken implication that if he'd been out there with Spock the accident might have been avoided hangs heavy in the air. Jim doesn't need to hear the words to know Pike is thinking it and they're both feeling guilty about it.

"Secondly, given the shit storm you left me to deal with, what makes you think you can just barge in here and expect me to offer you anything?"

"Because you might be a lot of things, Chris," he says, leaning back insolently in the plush chair, knees akimbo, "but you're not a player. You'd never have wasted resources looking for me if you didn't actually need me. I know we're...well, whatever we are to each other, but I won't delude myself into thinking you sent Spock just because you wanted to see how I was getting on."

Pike considers him for a long time, one finger pressed against his lips. There's a lot more grey in his hair since the last time they spoke, and deeper lines at the corners of his mouth. He looks like a man with a lot to do and not a lot to do it with. Jim is kind of counting on that.

"I might need you, Jim, but I don't have to like you right now."

"If it's any consolation, sometimes I hate your guts," Jim's eyes are hard and almost grey with determination. "But I trust you, so it's time you trusted me. What do you want from me, really?"

"I've got a mission in mind that could end this war before it turns up on our doorstep."

"And what, Starfleet aren't in favor because they like getting their asses handed to them on a regular basis?"

"This mission isn't sanctioned by Starfleet."

"Well, if it's like that, it's going to cost you," Jim makes his gamble and softens it with a lopsided smile.

Pike purses his lips, but the glint in his eyes tells Jim he's already won. "A ship, fully commissioned and outfitted to your specifications," Pike snaps. "Command team of your choosing and whatever support we can throw behind you, but we're not exactly above board here. I can't guarantee the cavalry are going to come when you call."

"Yeah, about that captaincy..."

"Name it."

There's a moment where his insides flood with grasping jealousy, rising up hard like a fist in his gut, twisting, ambitious and ugly, but he pushes down hard. This is bigger than him, way bigger, and he's so damn different from the kid who stood in Pike's office two years ago and lied through his teeth about being done with command.

Jim takes a deep breath and releases it, feeling all the conflict drain out of him on the exhale. "I don't want it."

Pike stares at him, eyes flicking over his face, searching for the punchline or the ploy. Jim knows the exact moment when the Admiral realizes he's serious, because the older man seems to deflate slightly before swallowing and pulling himself together.

"Okay," he nods, mouth tight. "That's your choice, Jim. I can respect that, after everything you've been through."

"You better," he says, driving it home, "because I'm not going out there without Spock in the center seat. I trust him with my life."

Pike looks about ready to strangle him, but it passes. Replacing it is a long-suffering kind of fondness, a look Jim can't ever recall being laced with such tenderness, certainly not when directed at him. "At least Spock deserves that. Do you remember anything about your rescue from that Romulan lifepod?" he asks.

"No, not a lot."

"Spock said something," the Admiral muses, twisting his mouth and leaning back to stare over Jim's head. "He said something that made me want to transfer him out so fast he'd think he was at warp."

"I'm guessing that there's a point you're getting to, either that or..."

"He said 'it should have been me,'" Pike snaps angrily. "You were more than halfway dead and all Spock wanted to do was trade places with you. Do you have any idea what that's worth, or how completely that compromises you as a command team?"

Jim feels something desperate lurch inside him. "Does it?" he snaps. "Or does it make us exactly what you need?"

  
-:-

  
McCoy is there when Spock comes around. It's a small mercy, he supposes, to find someone familiar watching over you at such a vulnerable moment. Still, he cannot help the pain he feels. He assumed Jim would be there. Assumptions are dangerous things.

"Spock."

"Doctor."

"Jim only left because I told him to."

"He has already done more than I expected," Spock manages hoarsely, "especially considering the burden I placed upon him."

"You would look at it that way, wouldn't you?" McCoy muses, sucking his teeth and flipping through Spock's chart. "Goddamn self-sacrificing Vulcan bullshit."

"You do not understand."

"I know Jim sacrificed the world in order to trust you the first time," McCoy snaps. "I can't fathom what it's cost him to make that leap of faith a second time around. What did you offer him?"

"Everything," Spock says brokenly, "though I did not realize it at the time."

Spock refuses to make eye contact, so eventually McCoy simply withdraws, no doubt wrapped in his own human judgements and preconceptions, completely unaware of what it cost Spock to make such an admission to himself, let alone another.

  
-:-

  
Jim leaves Pike's office full of determination and a sick sense of hope. Of course, all of his plans go awry when he arrives back at the hospital to find that Spock has woken early and discharged himself against medical orders. McCoy is almost incandescent with rage. It's all he can do to wave a note under Jim's nose before cursing profusely about having better places to be and more grateful patients to boot, before storming out.

The note contains an address printed in Spock's distinctive lettering.

Jim slaps it against his thigh thoughtfully and sucks his teeth. So this is how it's going to be.

 


	36. chapter 6.4

It's almost a full day before Jim can pin Spock down, and even then he only agrees to a meeting in a public place. He's not quite sure what Spock thinks might happen, but he should know better than to believe an audience will stop it. They opt for a Japanese place with a good vegetarian menu not far from the water. It's quiet and private and not frequented by Starfleet or EPAS personnel. Also, Bones is in easy driving distance should Spock require a doctor.

Jim gets there early and picks a table towards the back, where they can be unobtrusive and hopefully unobserved. Spock arrives exactly on time, still pale and bundled up against the early night air, but looking a hell of a lot better than he did in hospital. Whatever cutting edge treatment Bones put him on appears to be working. Jim watches him slide his arms out of the navy blue overcoat and pass it off to the attendant, revealing the plain black undershirt and slacks of an EPAS employee. That answers the one question Pike hadn't been able to; will Spock break the rules enough to throw in with them? Apparently, he will.

Spock crosses the moderately busy floor, slipping neatly between populated tables to take his seat against the wall and opposite Jim. He seems cool and collected, but the tightness around his eyes gives him away.

Jim listens to him talk, employing some of that oft-concealed intellect to follow the highly technical discourse while the rest of his mind is transfixed. The _Enterprise_ is important to him, the mission is important, but he’s hasn’t come here tonight for that. Spock's long-fingered hands deftly and precisely handle the chopsticks. He might have been born to them for all the trouble they give him. However, in the warm overhead lighting of the restaurant, the greenish-white lines of new scar tissue stand out in stark relief. They crisscross Spock's knuckles, wrap around the pads of his fingers and lace together over his wrist before disappearing into the crisp, dark fabric of his sleeves. When his fingers shift, the newly-healed skin blanches and resists.

"How exactly did it happen?" Jim blurts out, stopping Spock mid-sentence.

There is a pause, devoid of expression, controlled of everything except the almost imperceptible glance Spock cannot suppress. He looks down to the table top fleetingly, down at his hands which have given him away. "There was an incident involving a warp coil," he states simply. "Standard issue protective wear proved difficult to locate."

Without thinking, Jim reaches out, grips one hot hand in his own. He feels compelled, his movement urgent. "Senekot didn't protect you." He gives Spock no time to reply before leaning forward, pulling on that hand, drawing him in.

There is the slightest bunching of muscle in Spock's jaw. "All missions contain an element of risk."

Jim's eyes are intense, his voice whisper-tight. "Did you stop to think about how dangerous it was?" He doesn't continue, but with his fingertips dug in, he doesn't need to.

Spock flushes almost imperceptibly but does not draw his hand away. "Their survival was more important."

Jim shakes his head, tightens his grip even more. "Not to me," he whispers, "not with you."

It is an illogical statement. It should, by all rights, compel Spock to refute and defend his own premise. Instead, Jim is gratified to feel a slight but detectable return pressure against his fingers. Perhaps there are people present who might recognize them. Maybe holding hands is unwise and impolitic, but Jim can't bring himself to care. All his concern and all his carefully concealed loneliness is pouring into Spock. They might as well be surrounded by a vacuum.

"It is that very consideration that drove Pike to separate us," Spock reminds him warily. "I trust you have not forgotten."

"Of course I haven't."

When Jim loosens his grip, Spock lets go entirely, preemptively, so it's quite easy to detect his shiver of surprise when Jim only turns his hand to look at the palm. Again, Spock's gaze is deflected to his own skin. Scarring is unusual in this day and age. With technology being what it is, there are few disfigurements that cannot be undetectably healed. Unfortunately, there are some ways in which hybrid physiology is still poorly understood. Following Jim's gaze, Spock explains that collagen reformation, once begun, was deemed by the Vulcan healers to be too tenuous a process to interrupt with dermal regenerators. McCoy might have been able to do it, but out there, it was scar or risk sepsis. Spock had preferred to keep his fingers, regardless of their appearance. In all likelihood, the marks will fade with time.

It's testimony to how well Jim knows him that no questions pass his lips. It is fortunate for Spock that he is not required to reply to any, as he is currently struggling to process the sensory input generated by Jim's touch.

"You are aware," he says, fighting for expressionlessness, "of the significance of such gestures amongst Vulcans?"

Without looking up or pausing in the slow, exploratory slide of his chill human fingertips, Jim nods. "Do you mind?"

It is an imprecise question. The parameters are not clearly defined. Without elucidation there is a significant risk that Spock's response can be misinterpreted or taken out of context. All these objections and more rise to the surface of his orderly mind and dissipate like smoke on the wind.  
"I find I do not."

Jim does not acknowledge the admission. His fingers simply lace strongly around Spock's wrist as the other hand moves to push back the sleeve of his shirt. Even paler skin is revealed, lightly dusted with hair just as blue-black as the shiny cap on Spock's head. Jim swallows. "How far up do they go?"

"In addition to my hands, only the anterior surfaces of my limbs are affected." He watches Jim's face closely, perhaps doubting his ability to decipher emotion. "It was fortunate that most of my face and much of my torso was shielded by the mechanism itself."

"Fortunate..." Jim echoes and his fingers fall away.

Beyond coherent thought and desperate for a gesture of normality upon which to base himself, Spock reaches for the closest glass.

"Don't drink that," Jim says. "You hate beer."

Spock glances down to the foamy gold beverage in his hand. "I had no intention of drinking it."

Jim gives him a strange look. "Want to get out of here?"

"Yes."

  
-:-

  
"I missed you even though I was furious," Jim tells him.

They're walking along the foreshore under the artificial glow of streetlights. The cityscape blocks out most of the stars with its light pollution, but Spock can make out Alpha Centauri, Venus and the Starfleet shipyards against the glare. He is unsure how to reply to Jim's confession, so he says nothing. They walk on, Jim's arms swinging freely and Spock's hands tucked neatly in the small of his back.

"Thank you for writing those two times," Jim continues, disregarding the silence between them. "I didn't think you would." He snorts and runs a hand through his straggly blond hair. "I didn't think you'd leave either, so that fits, I guess."

Spock feels powerless to address the continuing void between them.

"I don't really understand why you obeyed that order," Jim presses, but he's looking everywhere except at Spock next to him. His eyes roam the small waves and passing cars almost obsessively. "Why you felt the need to abandon everything you'd built, everything you'd risked your life for, just to fulfil some whim for Pike."

"It was not a whim," Spock manages, finding his voice at last. "And you know my decision was strongly influenced by other factors."

Jim whips around to stare at him without breaking stride. "You can't honestly tell me you wanted that secondment."

"My options were limited."

"Spock, you were our DivCO; the crew were devastated."

Spock feels something clench uncomfortably in his side. "I did not anticipate their emotional response to my departure."

Jim makes a strangled sound and Spock looks quickly to his right, alarmed, but Jim is only laughing.

"No, of course you didn't." He runs a hand through his hair again, nervously. "Pretty sure you could have predicted mine, though."

Ahead of them, the end of the walking path is obviously approaching. To Spock, it seems like an insurmountable obstacle, solid and immovable and laced with menace. He clamps down firmly on his emotions, but can't hide the shiver that races up his spine.

Jim turns, stops in his tracks. "It's March," he realizes, glancing down at his own breath, frosty on the night air. "You're cold. I'm sorry."

The sound of Jim's apology is all it takes. Spock sucks in a deep breath and presses his lips together against the pain. Jim should not be apologizing. Jim was not the one who ran away, who acted out of cowardice, who was driven by less generous emotions. He takes two steps away, putting his back to his erstwhile Point One. Struggling for control, he battles with the pain of cold air in his healing lungs and healing hands clenched into fists at his side.

"Spock, what …?"

"Jim, do not," he interrupts, hardly recognizing the harsh sound of his own voice, it is so disguised by remorse and shame. "Do not."

Fingers close firmly around his elbow, but even that is warm compared to the chill that has taken over his body. He allows himself to be turned around, stands rigidly while Jim watches him, tries not to acknowledge the burn in the back of his throat. It is nausea or something similar. Clothing separates Jim's fingers from his skin, but the emotions are so strong that it makes no difference and Spock is in no state to block them. The tenuous connection between them strengthens momentarily and all of Jim's relief, loss, and anger sweep over him. Of their own accord, Spock's feet take him two steps back. His head sinks down, lips pressed tightly, with a weakness he cannot deny himself at this moment.

"I'm not as good without you," Jim confesses, and it's hard and bitter to Spock's ears. "I'm less than I can be, when you're not there."

The logic of symmetry is undeniable. Spock is powerless in the face of it. "It is the same for me."

"Then please stop holding back from whatever we have," Jim pleads angrily. "I'm not going to lie and say I won't want more than you do, but I give you my word I'll deal with it." He raises his head, pins him with a glare, his expression fierce. "I'll deal with it, Spock. I can keep it professional if you want. I just need to know where we stand. If I trust you again, I can't face the thought of turning around and finding you gone."

To hear his own sentiments echoed is nearly more than Spock can bear.

"Please Spock, can you ..."

"I will not leave again."

Overcome, Jim nods and wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. "Holy shit, I needed to hear that. You have no idea how." He leans forward, grabs Spock by the shoulder; a familiar gesture of camaraderie until a frown blossoms on his face. "Didn't they feed you? What the hell?"

"I have been unwell."

"Come on," says Jim, totally disregarding him. "I know this fabulous all night pasta joint. You're going to love their fettucine verdi."

"It is late."

His protest is met by a fierce expression. "I need to watch you eat something. It'll be good for my mental health."

Phrased like that, Spock is unable to form a suitable protest.

  
-:-

  
They have until oh six hundred before Spock's flight boards. It's not nearly long enough for either of them. It doesn't matter that Spock is only going a moon away, that it's part of Pike's plan or that the shuttle takes twenty minutes to get there, or about as long as commuters spend clearing spaceport security. They could talk all night and then some, Jim is certain of it.

He lives up to his promise and watches Spock pick listlessly at his pasta with avid eyes; like he's never really looked at him before. The fluidity of motion, the careful considered conversation, even the barely perceptible micro expressions, they're all familiar. What's new is the Vulcan bareness of him, the hard edge in his eyes. He's been pared down and sharpened into something else entirely. The revelation clenches in Jim's gut; Spock can never go back, never be the same; neither of them can. The old Spock is gone, mere traces of that emotional naivete left, or so it seems.

Jim eats nothing, barely touches his coffee all night, sits on his hands in the red pleather booth and tries to breathe past the tightness in his chest as Spock speaks haltingly of the _Tat’sar_ and his work there.

All too soon he's driving Spock to the spaceport in his borrowed car, hating the way the early morning traffic forces him to concentrate on the road and not their final few minutes together. Just because Spock's only going to Luna doesn't mean Jim is ever going to see him again. He's got what he came for; Jim's on board for Pike's little coup. Life is unpredictable and Spock even more so. Whatever else lies between them remains only half perceived, barely acknowledged. Pike holds all the cards now, but it's not in Jim's nature to let another man place his bets, especially with the stakes so high, and Spock hadn’t said anything when Jim played the ‘just friends’ move. Surely that has to mean something.

Spock checks his single bag and steps through security without a backward glance, without a single word. Jim stands, arms hanging by his sides, feeling the growing distance between them as though it’s a physical limit or an exponential loss of oxygen. Spock is far enough away that he starts to disappear here and there amongst the other passengers, only his height revealing him in glimpses.

Like a punch to the gut, Jim realizes he's been looking at this the wrong way. It's not about whether Spock is going to leave again, Spock damn well _is_ leaving. But this time it's because Jim hasn't been able to make himself say what needs to be said. Spock doesn't care if he's been missed or thought of or worried over. Spock needs to be _needed_ , just as much as Jim himself. He's said it in a thousand small ways, in the continual acceptance of Jim's touch and that raw, slightly desperate sales pitch on the rooftop of Derek's garage.

Overcome with certainty, Jim shrugs out of his jacket and vaults over the tape barrier. Sirens wail and he hits the ground running. Two security guards tear after him but they're not Points; they're not honed by months of running from _everything_ , or propelled by the gut-wrenching fear of losing the one thing that really matters to them. They don't stand a chance.

He darts in and out of the crowd, startling people, moving so fast he hears only the beginning of their curses and exclamations. His feet are drumming on the floor, arms pumping at his sides and he's grinning like an idiot, because he's missed this feeling of running after Spock, of needing to be wherever he is purely because that's part of who he is on a cellular level.

The crowd parts momentarily and he puts on a burst of speed. Spock is already half turned, having heard the commotion long before the humans around him. Jim skids to a halt, his motorcycle boots squeaking on the polished floor as he slams into Spock's chest. He reaches up, frames Spock's face in his hands, tries to find enough breath to tell him everything, but can only manage to gasp, "tell me I'm not too late!"

Spock's satchel slips from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

"Stay here, with me," Jim whispers, breathing hard, shaky with adrenaline, and of course that's when security tackle him to the ground.

Spock sways as Jim's hands are ripped away. Jim twists against the forearm pinning his face to the floor and manages to make eye contact, desperate to know whether he’s miscalculated again.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Spock sinks to his knees and pulls his ID from his satchel. "Release this man," he commands, with none of his natural authority. It doesn't matter, because the triple gold bars of a DivCO with Vulcan diplomatic immunity is authority enough on its own. All at once Jim is being hauled to his feet and dusted down by irritated but apologetic security officers.

"Uh, thanks," he mutters, "sorry guys, I just ..."

Spock grips him tightly by the elbow and pulls, cutting his apology short. Jim trips over his own feet to keep up as he's dragged through the stunned crowd by his arm, moving through the checkpoints and security swipes into the diplomatic lounges they have access to thanks to Spock's family's unique status on Earth. Jim is herded into a private room that Spock seals with his fingerprint, and it's then that he realizes he has no idea what to expect.

They stare at each other for a few moments, both frowning, both wary.

" _Stay_ with you?" Spock demands eventually.

It's that exact moment that tells Jim everything is going to be okay. He allows himself a second to hang his head, to suck in a deep breath past his bruised solar plexus and to revel in the bare emotion of that sentence. He knows that voice, has it memorized, tone, timbre and inflection. He breaks into a wide smile and meets Spock's eyes confidently. "Yeah, stay with me. Here, in San Fran, in my apartment."

Spock's lips part slightly as he stands there, back to the door, his face awash in the glow that says his flight is boarding. He looks stunned.

Jim laughs, moves forward, takes Spock's palm and presses it into his own cheek. "Go on, I'm serious," he grins, buzzing with the incredible high he's only ever associated with brilliant things that have the potential to utterly destroy him. "Say what you like, but you already know I mean it." He tilts his head, presses lips to Spock's wrist. "Just like I know I scare the ever-loving shit out of you, but you're going to stay with me anyway."

"How can you know?"

Jim shrugs, his smile lopsided. "You wrote me."

A little of Spock's unrest is staring to show on his face, the barest hint of hope lying beneath. "I expressed myself poorly."

"I'm hardly going to hold that against you."

The final boarding call for Spock's flight flashes overhead but neither of them take notice. Jim watches Spock think through every possible outcome of their current situation, feels the fringes of his emotional turmoil through the hint of whatever connection lies between them. It's tantalizing, like the aroma of something you know is going to taste a million times better than it looks.

"Oh for crying out loud," he laughs desperately, and plants a kiss on Spock's lips.

Spock pulls back instantly, but only millimeters. Jim can't bear to open his eyes, to see the rejection. Instead, he feels Spock's hot fingers curl into the side of his jaw, press below his ear, then he takes a few seconds to hover close, sharing the same air, before he presses back gently, his lips soft and sure. For split second, Jim feels like doing a victory dance, but it's the gentlest, most tender kiss he's ever received and it quickly steals all his attention.

This time when they part, Jim does open his eyes to Spock looking thoroughly at sea. “Is that a yes?”

Spock just claims his mouth with almost bruising intensity, forcing a gasp out of him that leads to tongues being involved and both being a trifle unsteady on their feet. It's frustrated and desperate and maybe half disbelieving, but it's also pure magic. The taste, the pressure, the sheer audacity of finally admitting the permanency they want leaves them holding on for dear life.

Spock pushes him firmly into the wall, pins him there with his body and proceeds to remind him of the many advantages of kissing a telepath. Jim fists his hands in fine, dark hair and gives Spock all of his yearning, pressing it into his skin and breathing it into his body. Spock shudders at the depth of it, lets Jim lick into his mouth, bends but does not break.

"Needed you," says Jim between kisses, "didn’t know how to tell you."

Spock's hands are firm on his hip and jaw, scar tissue stretched tight but disregarded.

A little light headed with both victory and lust, it takes all of Jim's willpower to speak again, to grab handfuls of Spock's hair and pull those lips away from his throat. "Final call," he pants. "You're going to miss your flight."

Spock clenches his teeth together, lips tight, eyes fierce. "The meeting concludes at seventeen hundred hours."

"You haven't slept."

"Neither have you," he argues, taking a step back into Jim's personal space, firm hands pinning his shoulders to the wall. "What do you propose?"

"Get your ass back to my place, asap," Jim commands.

"Agreed."

"The next twelve hours are going to feel like forever."

"Yes."

Jim's smirks. "One word answers; am I getting to you?"

Spock leans in until his lips are level with Jim's ear, leaving him to stare out into the room. He takes a breath, Jim can feel the air move against his sensitised skin. "Yes."

"Okay," Jim swallows painfully. "Meeting canceled."

When Spock pulls back, his lips are wry with humour. "I shall see you this evening," he says.

"Hang on a second," Jim grabs him, hands going to Spock's normally immaculate hair, smoothing and patting it until it is almost presentable again. Of course, standing that close, there is no way he's going to deny himself a final kiss. That devolves into two, then three. Spock's bag hits the floor again and they're in danger of undoing the hasty repair on his hair.  
Spock is called by name over the P.A. and Jim laughs into his mouth, pushing him away with both hands. "Go on, get lost. You're a crap liar and you're not allowed to tell Pike the truth if you're late."

With a tug to his uniform shirt, Spock straightens from retrieving his bag for the second time. "I am a perfectly adequate liar."

Jim's smile widens. "Now, you see, that wasn't half bad."

Spock casts one last glance over his shoulder, eyes dancing, then schools his features and cycles the door. Jim follows to the threshold, admiring the familiarly composed expression, the immaculate posture. A new grin consumes his face as a Vulcan walks through San Fran spaceport with kiss-swollen lips and a barely detectable spring in his step. He can wait another twelve hours for that, but not a second longer.

  
-:-

  
Pike tries to look casual as Spock walks into his office; a pretense that's complicated by the presence of Admiral Komack from F-Sec and the Minister for Health crowding his office. He momentarily envies Spock his Vulcan heritage as the newly reinstated Commander takes it all in his stride.

"Spock."

"Admirals," he nods, “Minister.”

"Please take a seat," he invites, gesturing to the one remaining chair next to Minister Lawson. "The President sends his apologies."

Spock inclines his head in acknowledgement and sits stiffly, his spine several inches from the back of the chair.

Pike surveys the room and then pulls up a report with a deft flick of his fingers. The built in projector displays it on the wall behind him, affording his guests an unobstructed view. "As you can see here, the repurposing of the _USS Enterprise_ is running approximately four weeks behind schedule. With Prime Division now down to thirty two percent effective capacity, it's imperative that we fast-track the final installations and engine testing."

"What you're talking about takes personnel as well as credits," Komack counters immediately. "Starfleet don't have enough techs to service our _own_ ships, let alone EPAS as well."

"Admiral, with all due respect," Lawson begins, "EPAS forms an integral part of all military and civilian operations. Without them, you'd have even less techs at your disposal."

"It takes them over two days to reach Deneva and you want me to be grateful?" Komack blusters, crossing his arms over his chest. "We lost good men and women while they puttered around playing nursemaid to a bunch of tourists."

Pike feels his heart rate accelerate as Spock stiffens almost imperceptibly, knowing he has to redirect before this devolves into the standard pissing contest that usually reigns supreme between 'Fleet and their NGOs and ancillary services. "EPAS charter specifies securing existing aide recipients prior to embarking upon new supportive ventures, but you know that already," he spreads his hands placatingly. "We could debate this for hours and get absolutely nowhere. I'm not denying that our operational efficiency has slumped in the last quarter; that much is self-evident. We're down on recruits, down on funding, down on resources and hell, I know we're not alone. According to last week's Security budget, Starfleet is well under its recruitment and retention quotas, too."

"What exactly are you trying to say?" Komack snaps, his eyes narrowed.

"Just that we're all in this together and the only way out of it is to shore each other up," Pike says reasonably. "You give us a leg up now, then we return the favour by reducing our response time and increasing our patient load. What I'm talking about is a simple investment in our combined future."

"We can draw the funding from Public Health," the Minister interjects adroitly. "The 'Fleet need not shoulder one hundred percent of the burden."

"What I don't understand is why you folk suddenly want state of the art weaponry," Komack scowls. "The last thing we need is a bunch of doctors and nurses out there playing cowboy on the front line!"

Evidently, Spock can hold his silence no longer, because he leans forward and breaks into the conversation deftly. "One need only analyze the incapacitation of the _Stalwart_ to understand why greater defensive capacity is necessary amongst EPAS vessels," he says, calmly. "Whilst I understand that the _Enterprise-B_ represents a significant material investment for Starfleet, surely it cannot compare to the long-term value of highly trained Starfleet lives she will be responsible for saving? Having worked alongside military operations for so long, I am well aware of that in your eyes, as well as those of President Wescott, Starfleet remains primarily an exploratory and peace-keeping armada. The threat of Nero has forced all of us to adapt in ways we could not anticipate, but I am certain that you share my aspiration of renewing a technically skilled Starfleet in the wake of this conflict; something we can only achieve in the absence of significant loss of life." Spock's words border on emotive, especially for a Vulcan, leaving Komack little room to maneuver.

Pike smiles inwardly. The Commander is still the son of a diplomat at heart.

"Of course, but ..."

"Admiral," Lawson interrupts, laying a manicured hand on Komack’s sleeve. "It will look good for everyone. There's no downside to putting more EPAS in the sky, especially with the President's backing."

Komack seethes visibly, pressing his lips together. "Fine, but I'm not overseeing this little pet project of yours, Sarah. You want to steal our ship _and_ our techs, you sign on the dotted line come the next election." He stands, pulls his uniform straight and nods at Pike. "See you at the Intelligence meeting."

"That you will," the Admiral replies.

The Minister waits until the door shuts behind Komack before rising to her feet, and this time Spock and Pike rise, too. "Admiral, Commander," she smiles at each of them in turn. "I hear the President has high hopes for an EPAS vessel under an EPAS captain. For your sake, and mine, I hope that trust is not misplaced."

"It's not," Pike says confidently.

"Must be one hell of a man you're putting in the center seat, Admiral," Lawson clucks, retrieving her satchel from under the table.

"Minister," he says formally, turning to face Spock, "meet the new Captain of the _Enterprise._ "

"Oh," she exclaims, a wide smile suffusing her face as she follows Pike's gaze to rest on Spock. "In that case, I heartily approve, Christopher."

"Thought you might," Pike smirks under his breath.

"Captain Spock, I know your father well," Lawson says, coming to stand before him, diminutive even in her heels. "He always speaks highly of both your intellect and logic. Congratulations."

Spock arches an eyebrow at the sudden and unexpected turn of events, but thank god, Pike thinks, doesn't protest his surprise appointment in front of a member of the Council.

"Do us civilians proud, would you?" Lawson continues, beaming up at him. "I'd dearly love to stick it to Komack at the next F-Sec quarterly review."

Spock bows his head, though his eyes seek out Pike and bore into him. "I shall endeavour to perform admirably, Minister."

Pike practically holds his breath until the Minister leaves, wincing at every pleasantry and congratulations, watching Spock's expression grow tighter and blanker by the second.

Finally, when it's just the two of them, Spock pulls himself up to his full height and frankly glares. "Captain of the _Enterprise?_ "

Pike knows the smile on his face isn't helping his cause, but he can't seem to stop. "It was the only condition of Jim's return to active duty."

Spock only seems to grow more troubled, steepling his hands and bringing them to his lips. "He failed to mention it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Pike drawls, lifting a stubborn leg out of the way with both hands and using the desk to get to his feet. "The kid has a way of manipulating just about everyone. It's not malicious or even particularly conscious on his part; he just has an idea of how the world ought to fit together and then does his level best to make it so. It's what made him a good Second Officer on the original _Enterprise_ and a frankly brilliant Point One." Pike shrugs and limps around the desk to catch Spock's eye again. "I thought it would take his captaincy to bring him back, instead it took yours."

Spock continues to stare at the floor, his words slightly obscured by his fingers. "I am not qualified to run a starship."

"You don't have to be able to reverse parallel park her, Spock, I just need you to keep her in the air."

"And the mission?" he demands. "I am no military strategist, no command track officer."

"You have Jim for that."

Spock arches an eyebrow, finally meeting Pike's gaze.

"He's signed on as your First Officer," Pike reveals, frowning slightly. "It will be a slightly convoluted chain of command, what with him still being Acting DivCO and all, but I trust him to handle the dual appointments and you're going to be far too busy being Captain to run Point anymore."

"You seem to have thought of every eventuality except one," Spock counters sternly. "What if I do not wish to be Captain?"

"Spock," Pike admonishes, spreading his hands. "You've been Captain of the _Stalwart_ for years in practice if not in name. Don't tell me you haven't thought about what it might be like to cut out the middle man." He clenches his hands into fists, a little excitement glinting in his tired eyes. "Imagine simply doing what needs to be done, for once!"

"My place is on a medevac shuttle, directing rescue operations, not on the bridge of a Federation starship," he insists, coming close to outright refusal.

"No, Spock," the Admiral shakes his head fondly, eyes him a little sadly. "You don't see it, but you're too big for that shuttle. Jim knows because he sees what I see in you. He knows you're capable of so much more. If you do nothing else, just believe in that. Jim Kirk doesn't give his trust lightly, if ever, and I was done questioning the level of professionalism between you two the second he stood in my office and turned down that center seat. He wanted it," Pike chuckles, "hell, he could practically taste it."

"Then why ..."

"Because you're a natural leader, you idiot. People serve under you because they know in their bones that you're not going to let them down." He steps up closer, punches the air between them with his index finger. "They know you won't ask too much, push too hard or leave them hanging. Dammit, Spock, the waiting list for Prime Division, let alone Nix Alpha, is so long it's _embarrassing._ Surely you realize that's because it's _your_ division?"

Spock looks torn between humiliation and denial. Finally, after a pause, he squares his jaw. "I shall consider what you have said, Admiral."

"You do that.”

  
-:-

  
It is actually twenty two hundred hours before Spock makes it back to Jim's rented apartment in San Francisco. Lights have been left on and the door unlocked. He resolves to speak to Jim about reasonable security measures as well as the captaincy issue. His body moves stiffly, imbued with the chill air of spaceports and the short, inadequately heated taxi ride. He places his ID card, satchel and gloves on the kitchen bench as quietly as he can and follows the drift of light deeper into the apartment.

He pauses at the threshold of the bedroom. Jim has obviously intended to remain awake for him, but has been unsuccessful. He sits slumped against the pillows, reading light illuminating his profile, a PADD wedged at what must be an uncomfortable angle beneath his chin. Spock allows himself a tiny smile. Perhaps it is for the best. There is no possibility of his being able to match the intensity they shared earlier in the day; his mind is willing, but his body too exhausted.

Spock moves quietly into the ensuite, closing the door before turning on the light to wash his hands, face and feet as is his custom before bed. He cleans his teeth, combs his hair and regards himself curiously in the mirror. He does not recall ever feeling so welcome in another person's home. With a slight hitch of pleasure, he does not repack his belongings, but arranges them neatly along the sink, a counterpoint to Jim's own.

With an uncomfortable swallow, he lifts a hypo to his neck and feels it hiss. Almost immediately, his chest eases, some of the effort of breathing dissipating. It would be infinitely simpler to change clothes in the ensuite, so he does not examine the urge that drives him back into the semi-darkness of Jim's room and away from chance encounters with his reflection.

He deposits his folded coat on the chair and reaches for the fastening of his shirt.

"Were you going to wake me?" Jim's voice asks softy.

Spock turns, one hand still lingering at his collar. "I was not."

Jim pushes himself up onto an elbow, his Starfleet Academy t-shirt bunching so the lettering becomes illegible. "For future reference, always wake me," he objects.

"You are a particularly heavy sleeper." Spock thinks of the mission to Solis-allera and the way everyone else had blinked and grumbled at their sixteen hour entrapment in an escape pod while Jim had slept on oblivious, head pillowed only on the arm of his EVA suit.

"Smartass," Jim says affectionately, swinging his legs out of bed. "Sleep is good; you should try it sometime."

"I ..."

"Preferably with me."

Spock does his best to keep the anticipation from his face, but judges himself to have failed when a slow smile forms on Jim's. Their eyes stay locked as he approaches, replacing Spock's hands with his own, parting the seam of his shirt by touch.

"Preferably now," Jim continues teasingly, pushing the warm thermal fabric aside and massaging the indents under Spock's collarbones with the pads of his thumbs. "I was right; you're too thin again."

"It is a human trait," Spock confesses, turning to assist Jim's efforts in peeling the shirt away. "When exposed to physical and mental stress, Vulcans maintain a static body mass for a longer period of time."

"Damn them," Jim curses without any malice, eyes dancing when Spock glances down to meet them. "Aren't they so annoyingly perfect?"

"I was not implying ..."

"Yeah you were," he scolds, reaching for Spock's undershirt and pulling it up and over his head in one easy movement, filling his freshly combed hair with static that snaps and sparks in the gloom. "I realize that on Vulcan, being human can be a disadvantage. What I'd like you to consider is that this doesn't hold true everywhere else. Needing to eat and sleep aren't exactly failings where I come from."

Spock watches his face, trying to read the emotion there but unsure of his ability despite Jim's habitual expressiveness. "I will not deny that there are times when I long for the simplicity of being either entirely Vulcan or entirely human. Instead, I must navigate a path between these states of being; no simple task." He frowns slightly, wanting Jim to understand. "It is rarely easy, and I believe that I have only recently come to an awareness of how truly challenging it can be."

"Maybe you’ve always known how to handle it," Jim speculates, standing there sleep-rumpled and thoughtful, prods him in the sternum. "Maybe you just need to stop looking so damn hard."

Spock begins to suppress the emotion that wells up at Jim's words, then decides he does not wish to, and lets it roll over him in all its intensity. Some of it must show on his face, because Jim's pointing finger flattens into a warm hand against his chest, bracing him.

"Hey," he says soothingly. "That wasn't a criticism. I just think you're kind of awesome, and I wish you could see it, too."

One corner of Spock's mouth lifts even as his eyes continue to burn. "'Kind of awesome?'"

"Oh, shut up."

Spock does, mostly because Jim kisses him, lips warm and gentle. He lets himself be led to the bed, drawn by the heat of Jim's skin and the firm pull of his hands. The light is dimmed further, but not extinguished, leaving just enough to outline them. Spock wants to talk about the _Enterprise_ , about the captaincy, but he is so tired his head is spinning, chest tight as he tries to breathe enough between the press of their lips. When he has to pause and steady himself, Jim uses the time to strip the rest of their clothes away, then determinedly pushes him into the mattress and spoons up behind him.

Spock takes a few deep breaths, dispelling the spots in front of his eyes. He can feel the gentle wash of concern bleeding over from Jim's skin, but when he turns to reassure his lover, firm hands still him then return to their slow, confident exploration. He lets himself sink into the sensation, taking a passive role as he almost never does. He tries to remember being held like this, touched like this before, but his mind only offers memories of that single shared morning with Jim aboard the _Stalwart_. It seems incredible that he should seem incomplete without such contact given his single previous exposure to it. It is not logical.

"Spock?" Jim asks, perhaps sensing the shift and seeking reassurance.

In answer, he simply accommodates Jim's body even more, ignoring the flash of apprehension at making himself appear so vulnerable. Trust is essential to everything that they have the potential to be. Spock is exhausted, tired beyond words, and he does trust. Implicitly.

Jim is definite but calm, his hands a smooth glide of just enough pressure, a slow, thoughtful tracing of muscle and bone. He presses fingertips to the nape of Spock's neck, releasing the tension there, slides a thumb down the outside of his thigh in a way that burns pleasantly in his lower back. Slow breaths are warming and soothing, heating the base of his skull as one of Jim’s hands holds him close and the other prepares the way.

"Lights off," Spock manages, feeling far too exposed with even the small amount of illumination that is left to them.

In the dark, Jim carefully joins them, clasps them close and matches Spock's breathing as he adjusts to the unfamiliar fullness. He then seems content to simply lie in this most intimate of embraces, though Spock can feel his need almost as though it were his own. Eventually, after full minutes have passed, he shifts with considered slowness, continues the touch of his palms and fingertips in the darkness. When he stops again, so close to the edge, Spock is confused. At least until the build of pleasure between them settles into a slow burn in the pit of his stomach, which is when Jim resumes. All at once it seems inspired.

Spock reaches behind him to find the back of Jim’s head to cradle it with his fingers, holding the sound of his breathing as close as he can. Jim responds by shifting to press his lips into the hollow behind Spock’s ear, whispering of how needed Spock is, of how much he is loved, of how Jim knows he _can_ live without this, but can’t imagine why he’d want to.

Looking back on that night, Spock will be uncertain how long they lie joined, moving then still, embracing then loving. He will just remember Jim's tenderness and his amazing self control. He has never before experienced such simultaneous relaxation and overwhelming sensation. His body and his mind are both so open, more so than any other moment in his life. It seems natural to surrender himself completely to the experience, to simply feel, existing rather than analyzing. The ongoing conflict inside him is momentarily silenced.

Afterwards, boneless and warmed, he falls asleep almost instantly, Jim's pulse still thundering against his shoulder blade. He forgets the _Enterprise_ for a time.

  
-:-

  
Spock wakes alone.

He is not anxious or confused. The sounds of Jim's presence in the apartment are easily detectable, below the range of human hearing perhaps, but not to a half-Vulcan. He simply lies there and listens, attempting to piece together the tableau that will greet him in the kitchen. Some sounds are unidentifiable, but in a pleasantly problematic way, not a frustrating one. He is still overcome with a languid sense of rightness, one that he illogically hopes might never fade.

Resolved, he rises from the bed, bare feet flexing against the carpet as he begins the series of meditative stretches that he has known since childhood. His eyes are closed, sunlight striking his face to transform his eyelids into a splash of bright green. The small scars that lie scattered all over his body still pull unpleasantly as he reaches the pinnacle of each movement, but do not concern him quite so much. Skin is malleable. Skin will heal, stretch and accommodate over time.

One arm raised above his head, fingers pointing to the ceiling, he sinks deep into a lunge, feeling his body protest. Focusing on his breathing, he lets the discomfort bleed away, not clinging, not judging, simply accepting the physical sensation. _This is my body, this is my pain._

He has not had the energy or the inclination to maintain these simple rituals since the accident. In truth, it has seemed rather pointless to engage in practices designed to balance the _ak'shem_ and the _katra_ , when his were so entirely disparate since his departure from the _Stalwart_. Even in the weeks prior to the explosion, he had existed like an automaton; functional on the most basic of levels. He has not attained _s'thaupi_ , the most crucial state of Vulcan meditation, in longer than he cares to contemplate. As he slides his trailing leg forward, folding into the _ikapirak_ , forehead resting on his knees, he allows his body to abide in this most closed of poses and attempts to observe his thoughts without attachment.

It is more difficult, even, than during his childhood.

Like a windblown leaf, his subconscious flits from one concern to the next, skittish and fearful and full of remorse. Guilt colors everything within him, blocking the _tvi-sochya_ he craves; the still point, the peace. Trying not to judge himself, Spock allows his body to relax into the _loshirak_ , feet tucked into the opposite knee, hands resting atop them, open and palms facing upwards. As he was closed, now he is open.

With deep, measured breaths, he welcomes in the tumult of emotion that awaits him, suppressed in the depths of his mind. The force of it is staggering, the denial he has lived with almost debilitating. It is only _k-oh'nar_ , he thinks, _the fear of losing control._

The instinct of most beings is to avoid pain, to escape fear, to erect barriers and seek protection from the sensation of such vulnerability. Spock thinks of Jim, of this precious second chance, and chooses not to. Instead, he welcomes it deep within himself, turns into it, leans hard against all the places that hurt the most. Gradually, the fear disappears.

 _"Dakh pthak, dakh kafusik. Pthak-fam zahal-tor trashan t'shal. Wafu yuk-eshu'a t'tevunik vellar, heh kel svi'yeht'es t'rubai. Nam'tor hayal. Fai-tor yeht'es,"_ he says, the rarity of spoken Vulcan cementing the teachings, causing him to hear them again, as though for the first time, anew.

 _Cast out fear, cast out shame. Fearlessness follows death of self. Deny the nightmare of enduring things and dwell in the actuality of impermanence. Be calm and still. Know truth._

Spock sits for a long time.

  
-:-

  
Jim turns at the sound of a mug being set on the kitchen bench. Spock didn't need to shift it, had no logical reason to do so. It was designed only to alert Jim to his presence.

"Good morning to you, too," he replies, breaking into a wary smile.

"I slept well and meditated," Spock says, clearly aware that Jim will want to know.

"Almost eight hours. It suits you."

Spock only nods and Jim reminds himself to accommodate their differing experiences with the morning after. It had never been an issue aboard the _Stalwart_ , with crisis after crisis popping up in the wake of their first, tumultuous coming together. Here, in the bright light of mid-morning, all the potential pitfalls are exposed. Both of them, apparently so ill-equipped for intimacy.

"French toast?" Jim offers, turning back to the eggs he is whisking. Again, there is only silence, and the first clench of anxiety begins in his gut, only to dissipate as the warmth of a body brushes against his back. Spock looks over his shoulder, allowing Jim to studying the curl of one ear and the line of an eyelash abandoned in the hollow of his eye.

"So that is what you were doing," Spock says, studying the bowl with undeserved interest. He looks up, directly into Jim's eyes. "The sound was unfamiliar."

Jim can't resist thumbing away the errant eyelash before speaking. "I'd apologize for waking you, but my French toast is so amazing you should be thanking me instead."

Spock's eyes smile although his expression remains unchanged. "Is that so?"

"Yeah," Jim breathes, leaning in and fitting their lips together. "That's so."

Spock kisses back, pressing him into the counter, no longer as passive as the night before. Jim feels ridiculous, making out with such enthusiasm over a bowl of whisked eggs, but the freedom to do so is new and fulfilling. It sets his heart racing with joy and fills him with fear at the same time.

Perhaps sensing the conflict, Spock stills, a warm, tall mass in Jim's arms, blocking the sun with his shoulder. They stand together while Jim fights the urge to run like hell and Spock gives him the time to do so, if he wishes. That consideration is even more terrifying, plunging into emotional territory that lies largely unexplored; and for good reason.

"The way I feel about you is always polar opposites," Jim confesses roughly. "Like right now, I want to leave but I also want to stay."

"I understand." Spock confirms, not seeking his eyes, not attempting to bind him.

Jim shakes his head. "I want this, but I don't know how."

"You know," Spock challenges. "Just as I knew, but refused to believe."

It's so quiet in the apartment that Jim can hear the bubbles in the eggs popping quietly against the edge of the mixing bowl, but that's okay.

“Jim, we need to talk about the _Enterprise_.”

 

 


	37. chapter 6.5

Jim finds a seat on the arm of the sofa, elbows on his knees. Spock is already seated at the opposite end, folded neatly in upon himself with a casual grace. His fingers rest on the upholstery, long and elegant, fractured by scars like he's sculpted from old marble.

“Okay,” says Jim. “The _Enterprise._ ”

Spock watches him for a handful of seconds, his gaze measuring. “You have nominated me as your superior officer,” he says. “It is a military position and one that I have never sought for myself.”

“I know that, but I'm not about to apologize.”

“To decline the nomination in the presence of Admiral Komack and Minister Lawson would have undermined Admiral Pike. I could not, in conscience, destabilize EPAS so thoroughly, no matter my personal misgivings.” He delivers this as a simple statement, even though it is a clear reprimand.

“At least it’s given you some time to think about it,” Jim suggests, palms out in placation.

“Time will not provide the answers I seek.”

“What will?”

“Perhaps you, Jim.”

“Me?”

“If you are to serve aboard the _Enterprise_ , under my command as you and the Admiral have orchestrated, then we must discuss the _Narada_.” Spock’s expression is unreadable. “Specifically the events aboard the Romulan escape pod.”

Jim swallows. “I have to admit, I don’t remember much.”

“Do you recall declining my assistance?”

“What assistance?”

Spock falters slightly, but recovers so quickly it’s almost imperceptible. “I might have been able to stabilize your condition via a mindmeld. You forbade me to do so.”

Jim feels his gut drop away. He reaches for the arm of the sofa with one hand, anchoring himself against a shift that only he can feel. "I can't believe we haven't spoken about that," Jim whispers, then laughs once. "We can kiss and screw and eat French toast but we haven't _talked_ have we?" He looks up to find Spock's troubled eyes waiting. "What happened?"

"Distance," Spock supplies. "Distance and time."

Jim lets that sink in, thinks about the many secrets in his life, the way each and every one has leached into his soul like a stain that won’t wash out. The memory of Spock’s mind rushes up to meet him in a flurry of remembered heat and spaciousness, only to be followed by the intense precision of his counterpart’s and the way both of them have been forced to use their telepathic skills as a weapon. The trade-off here is guilt for honesty; potential pain for peace of mind.

“The other Spock, the older Spock, I’m sure he put something in my head,” Jim begins cautiously. “I have this sensation like the beginning of a migraine whenever I think too hard about it. All I know for sure is I have to be there when Nero comes. Whenever that is, however it happens, I _have_ to be there. A lot of other crap bled through, but I...” he looks up, surprised to have glanced away, unsure when the pressure of Spock’s attention became too much to bear. “I’ve never been keen on the idea of destiny or fate, but this is less of a choice and more of a compulsion. And now I know things about the other Spock, about you I guess, that I’m not supposed to know,” he confesses. “His memories and mine … there are things that you should never have to see; things about both of us and my past.”

"Emotional transference can be a side-effect of the meld." His regard intensifies, those dark brows drawn in tightly over the bridge of his nose. "You were attempting to protect me?"

Jim nods. "Essentially, yeah."

"You were in mortal danger, stranded in uncharted space, suffering life-threatening injuries and you failed to consent to the mindmeld that might have been necessary to save your life because you wanted to spare me emotional distress?"

Jim draws breath but doesn't speak immediately, startled into silence by the fact that Spock sounds angry. No, hold that, he sounds _pissed._ It's a cold, hard, edgy kind of anger he's radiating; a very Vulcan rage. Jim wants to swallow but his mouth is suddenly too dry. All he can do is nod lamely and wonder when he lost control of the conversation so comprehensively.

Spock unfolds from the sofa like a weapon of war, he closes the distance between them in three measured strides and his hands are like vices when they close around Jim's upper arms. "Jim, I have seen your mind and have not suffered for it. If you ever do anything so pointlessly self-sacrificing again, I will personally declare you psychologically unfit for duty and have you expelled from the service," he says, deadly soft. "Do I make myself clear?"

"I won't hurt you if I can avoid it," Jim counters, holding his ground because this is too important for lies. "Someone else has, I just know it, and I won't be that person all over again."

Spock's hands clench harder. "No future revelation, no secret from my past or yours, no memory from an alternate universe could possibly cause me more pain than your death."

"You don't know that." His laugh is bitter, has a bit of an hysterical edge.

Spock searches Jim’s face. The clipped diction and sheer vehemence of his next words resonate between them. "Never sacrifice yourself for me. I will have your word."

"No," Jim denies without hesitation. "I can't swear to that."

Spock's hands fall away. "What if I require it?"

"Protect yourself," he counters quickly, "so that it's less of an issue."

"You cannot possibly be so naive," Spock chastises. "There is too much at stake."

"It's something about the meld, isn't it?" Jim's eyes narrow. "Something specific."

Spock's silence speaks volumes. They pause, studying each other. Jim watches those dark eyes flick side to side in study, up and down, cataloguing, categorizing. Spock is searching for something and Jim wants to help, but can't. They’re both stuck in the awkward silence that precedes disclosure or retreat.

Spock stands without replying and crosses to the transparent door. He pauses there with his bare feet pressed against the hardwood and reaches out to place a single fingertip against the transparent aluminium. He looks both young and determined there, haloed by the sunlight. "A leader should be decisive and confident, not afflicted with doubts and uncertainties."

"You're wrong," Jim says, fighting the urge to follow him across the room. "I've served under both kinds of Captains, lost ships, battles and countless lives while I was at it. The best Captain is one who looks at things from all angles, who questions everything, including themselves. The only danger in uncertainty is wallowing in it, but doubt has never paralyzed you. I could cite a dozen examples without even thinking. Come on, you already know I'm right. Whatever it is that's holding you back, it's time to let go and get on with your life," Jim insists, unwilling to generalize the problem but seeing no alternative. "Just lay the mindmeld issue to rest."

Spock's lips are the only things that move. "I would prefer to be alone for a time."

Frustrated and confused, Jim leaves him staring out into the sunshine and stalks into the spare room, has to stand in the center of it for a moment with his hands on his hips to collect himself.

It feels like he and Spock are having two separate conversations, but he knows deep in his gut that they're one and the same. He's done enough psychotherapy in his teenage years, and also more recently with Bones, to know that his need for Spock to accept his commission is rooted in far more than respect and confidence. Sure enough, it _is_ about trust, only at a deeper level than any second in command should require from their superior officer. He can invest in both his professional and personal ties with Spock because he knows, he _believes_ that although Spock might be fallible, he might disappoint, he might even leave again, the one thing he will never do is violate the essence of what they are to each other.

His throat is tight and his eyes are burning so he powers up the terminal with a frustrated slap, determined to distract himself with the first few encrypted orders from Pike. A mere fifteen minutes later, he's forced to admit that his mind refuses to be derailed. If Spock declines this posting, if he tells Pike he won't do it, then the center seat will fall to Jim, who really, honestly, right down to the mattresses doesn't fucking want it. He used to think that gold shirt was his first, best destiny. He used to believe he could excel there. Two years in EPAS have shown him that his real talent is far more nebulous.

Jim learned early that he had to be a good judge of character, needed to uncover people, to pin down their motives. When you do that as a child, the world loses some of it's shine, torn away along with a good proportion of naivete. The payoff is all about hard truths and a bitter kind of self-awareness. The bonus, if there is one, has always been the ability to take a situation and see it from all angles. Truthfully, nothing has given Jim quite the same buzz as hanging from the side of a medevac shuttle and taking that leap of faith, confident that his target will veer left, or duck low, or even grab hold. It's now so fundamental to his being that it's hard to imagine living without it. He yearns for that visceral sixth sense of an unspoken connection. Jim looks at a battlefield now and it all just falls into place. He's confident he can benefit the greatest number of people by relaying that insight to someone like Spock, someone who can think above the chaos and put Jim's instincts to best use. Jim is a born First Officer, not a Captain. It's a humbling but liberating revelation.

His nerves are fried and his patience with himself almost exhausted by the time a cautious knock sounds and Spock slips into the study.

Jim swivels in his chair and waits.

"Inform Admiral Pike that I require Lieutenant Montgomery Scott to oversee the final stages of the _Enterprise's_ warp core testing," Spock requests calmly. "Also, that I am promoting Pavel A. Chekov to the rank of First Lieutenant and placing him in charge of technical recruitment."

"Can do," Jim nods, feeling his body flush with relief.

Spock turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway, glancing at the carpeting then up at Jim's face. "Divisional Commander Kirk, will you do me the honour of accepting the position of First Officer aboard the _USS Enterprise_ and all the summary duties and responsibilities that entails?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good," Spock nods, still pensive, "and Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"If you place me in the position of having to choose between your life and the good of the many, I cannot vouch for my ability to act in a manner that remotely resembles logic of any kind."

"Duly noted," Jim nods, finding a smile from somewhere deep inside. They still need to talk, he understands that. At least the first line of defense has fallen.

-:-

Two weeks pass in a flurry of diplomatic posturing, endless committee meetings and construction inspections. Captain S'chn T'gai Spock emerges from his shuttle to EPAS' Luna headquarters characteristically pressed and starched, but with a hint of fatigue showing in his eyes. Some might question his single-mindedness in regards to this one particular crew appointment, but if there is to be a perk of accepting such great responsibility, he supposes it is the right to indulge his preferences from time to time.

The appointment of his Chief Tactical Officer has been blocked repeatedly by both the Ministry of Health and F-Sec. Each time the denial crosses his desk, Spock refiles his decision with new supporting arguments, following the Kirk model of slowly wearing down the opposition, although Jim phrases it somewhat more colourfully. Finally, Pike sent a comm to the apartment and ordered Spock to his office.

When the screen blanked, Jim had kissed him soundly, grinning and shaking his head. "About time," he'd said, fondly.

"For?"

And then Jim's smile had been blinding. "A little rebellion."

Now, Spock unconsciously lengthens his stride through the spaceport, hands open at his sides and free of even carry-on luggage. He will be staying only long enough to push through this appointment, and not a moment longer. There is a queue of technical and material requests waiting on his terminal, along with several other items that require his authorization, each too sensitive for electronic channels.

"Captain Spock for Admiral Pike," he announces to Christopher's new secretary. His wife, Jessica, no longer works for EPAS and Spock knows there is a reason for that. It may have to do with the way F-Sec are leaning harder on Pike every day, examining his expense reports and goading him endlessly in Council forums. It may also be related to the way Pike and Jim both pore over the Intelligence reports from the Neutral Zone, their dedication interrupted only to share pointed, worried looks.

The young man behind the desk nods and buzzes him through.

Pike is standing with the aid of only a single stick, staring at the bleak moonscape, but he turns as the doors swish open. "Captain," he smiles wryly, never passing up an opportunity to throw Spock's new rank in his face. "Are you trying to make me fire you?"

"If I no longer wished employment with EPAS, I would simply resign my commission, Admiral."

Pike gestures at the sofas, crossing the distance himself with only the slightest limp, the new mircrolite brace small enough to fit beneath his uniform, unseen except where it presses against the material. Spock joins him, sitting opposite so they are eye to eye.

"Spock, you know I can't approve this posting."

"You have the authority."

"On paper, _Enterprise_ is a search and rescue vessel, but you and I both know differently," Pike frowns. "How can I exercise my authority in support of something that potentially jeopardizes your mission?"

"Mandatory physical and psychological aptitude tests have been satisfied," Spock counters. "Is your objection personal?"

"Is my..." Pike winces in disbelief. "I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that."

"Then please clarify the nature of your objection to this posting," Spock requests, falling back on Vulcan directness.

"Okay, fine," Pike nods, eyes glinting. "Let's play hardball. You emotionally compromise each other."

Spock blinks. This is one line of rebuttal for which he has not prepared. His instincts are to deny it, to bury the twinge of guilt he feels beneath a mountain of repression and misdirection. Instead, he takes a deep, slow breath and holds Pike's gaze. "Once perhaps, but not anymore."

A slow, approving smile spreads across Pike's face. He starts nodding to himself, letting the motion settle before he reaches out and signs the appointment form with a flourish. "If you'd lied to me, I'd have turned you down again." He looks up as he hands the PADD over. "If this is Jim's influence, then I'm glad. You two are good together."

"I am gratified by your approval," Spock replies, unsure of the nature or depth of that selfsame emotion. He stands, PADD tucked under his arm.

"Just..." Pike forestalls him with a gesture. "Have you made it official?"

"Sir?"

"Have you bonded, Spock?"

Deeply uncomfortable, he shakes his head. "We have not."

"Look," Pike pushes to his feet with the aid of the stick, looking rather uncomfortable himself, "I'm the closest thing to a father Jim ever had, so I want you to know that what I'm about to say comes from a good place."

"I would hardly assume otherwise."

"Good, good," Pike nods, buying himself some time. "So you'll forgive me when I confess to re-reading your file." Spock just looks at him blankly so he clarifies. "Your _whole_ file."

That one qualifier drops like a stone into the center of Spock's fatigued control. No, like a boulder. He reaches out with his free hand, finds the arm of the sofa and sinks back into it slowly. "I understand."

Pike remains standing, offering a view of his knees rather than his eyes, as though he knows his mere presence is more than Spock can handle right now. "I never pulled rank in order to unseal it before; I never thought I needed to. Your academic record spoke for itself, your physical and psychological aptitude scores were off the charts, and Vulcans are notoriously tight-lipped about everything, let alone their sole successful Vulcan-human hybrid. Now, I look back on that decision and I wonder if I did you a massive disservice."

Spock does look up at that. "Sir?"

"I'm going to say this, and I really want you to hear me. Talk to Jim; he’ll understand."

Spock's heart tries to beat out of his throat and he is certain, absolutely sure, that Pike can tell.

-:-

Ashe Ho arrives at Luna spaceport with her whole life divided between a backpack and her faith in one half-Vulcan. It's a hell of a gamble for most people, but Spock's tall, serene presence in the lounge instantly justifies it. She smiles at him and spins herself over, forever preferring to propel herself independently of servos and motors even though the chair is fully automated. Wheeling it keeps her cardiovascularly fit.

Spock looks almost exactly as she remembers, even so many months later. His hair sits severely across his forehead, his dark EPAS blacks a sharp contrast to the space-paleness of his skin, and his hands clasp together in the small of his back. When he moves to greet her, it is with the same fluid strength, the same flat-palmed _ta'al._

"Captain," she salutes.

"Lieutenant."

Something in his tone finally tips her off. She tries not to let the perception show on her face, hoping the tightness is a product of his respiratory injury, still healing. "Thank you for believing in me."

"Faith was unnecessary," he corrects. "You have proven yourself more than capable of filling the position."

"Still, there aren't many Captains who'll have a cripple on their senior staff." She says it because the word still holds power over her and she hates it. Far better to use it herself than to suffer the reaction of others doing so.

He pins her with his dark eyes, concealing so much and yet so open. "If I harbored any doubts about this appointment I would hardly have insisted upon your nomination."

"Why did you?" she asks, "second it and then push so hard? Not that I'm ungrateful."

Spock unbends just enough to raise one eyebrow. "Despite our frequent disagreements, I have learned to respect doctor McCoy's professional opinion. He nominated you because you are qualified, but also because he is of the opinion that you possess unique qualities crucial to the success of our mission."

"And what are they, precisely?”

"I believe his exact words were: 'the ability to tell when something is inspired or just plain batshit insane.'" His eyebrow lowers after the delivery. "This is an indisputably desirable skill in a tactical officer."

Ashe laughs, she can't help it, and so turns it into a cough and aligns her chair with Spock's trajectory as he leads her from the gate lounge. She's never heard him curse before, at least, not in Standard. "Good, because I don't accept charity."

"A common theme among our command staff, it seems."

She's not sure how, but she's certain he's talking about Kirk.

-:-

Spock returns to the apartment several hours later, having been waylaid at F-Sec Headquarters by an awkward piece of funding manoeuvring that had the potential to delay the _Enterprise's_ refit to EPAS specifications. Minister Lawson appeared fortuitously at the end of a lengthy and exhausting confrontation with a minor Starfleet official and promptly circumnavigated the latest F-Sec objections in a manner Spock can only refer to as one which verges on blackmail. He is not entirely comfortable with the technique, but cannot fault her motive or efficacy.

Jim looks up from his PADD as Spock closes the door, blinking a few times to adjust his focus. "You're home late."

Spock shrugs out of his coat and hangs it neatly on the peg by the door. "If you persist in reading reports with inadequate lighting you will damage your eyesight."

"What did Pike say?" Jim asks, ignoring his concerns as he uncrossing his ankles and rolls to his feet.

"He approved Lieutenant Ho's nomination."

"He did?" Jim beams. "About time, the grumpy old bastard."

"The Admiral believes my insistence on the matter is your doing."

"Does he want me to stop corrupting his favorite Vulcan?" Jim's tone is light, filled with amusement.

"As far as I am aware, I am the only Vulcan with whom Admiral Pike can claim any form of social relationship," Spock corrects him, "which hardly makes me his 'favorite.’"

"That's not true; he knows your father and that other dude they sent to the Security Council meeting when your father couldn't make it. He kind of knows Senekot, too, not that Senekot could be anyone's favorite anything."

"You are allowing your personal feelings on the matter to cloud your judgement."

"Whereas you're totally impartial, right?" Jim is smiling, casually circling the sofa so they're face to face. "Never had a favorite Point Two? Type of food? Favorite human?"

Spock's eyes narrow even as his lips quirk. "I admit to having preferences in regards to food."

"You're such a tease," Jim tells him, eyes dancing. "This thing with Ashe; we did good." Jim steps up close, brushing the back of his hand against Spock's own. They're silhouetted against the window, dark shadows against the afternoon sun. The air is still faintly warm and tinted gold.

"Yes, I believe we did." Spock allows his fingers to be captured.

"Then what's on your mind?"

Spock massages his thumb into the palm of Jim's hand and rests their brows together. "There is a matter we ought to discuss; however the thought of it makes me feel uneasy."

"Mmm," Jim hums in the small space between them. "I still love it when you say the word 'feel.'"

The gentle exhalation is Spock's version of a laugh. "You are easily pleased."

Jim finds the hem of Spock's shirt and slips his fingers beneath the thin thermal layer, brushing up against the warmth of his waist, tracing around until he can press his thumb into the hollow of one hip and hold him still.

"I bet I can do something about your unease."

"Such arrogance," Spock whispers, lacing their fingers together more tightly and pressing into the hand beneath his shirt.

"Ahem."

A pointed cough startles them apart a few inches, but it's impossible to hide the moment they just shared.

Doctor McCoy swallows and frowns mightily, waving a handful of data PADDs. "I thought you might like to see these, but it can wait."

"Hey, Bones. Don't knock or anything," Jim shakes his head and steps away from Spock, his hand trailing behind him, reluctant to part ways. "Are those the preliminary crew rotations? Heavy on the Starfleet side of things like Pike promised?"

"Uh, drop outs or washouts mostly," McCoy corrects him gruffly, walking further into the room to meet him halfway. "The Admiralty don't know what Pike's planning but they know he's up to something and they're making it very hard for him to get anything he really wants. Academy grads, interns and people on extended sick leave make up the better end of the curve. On the other side you've got dissenters and troublemakers, both enlisted and private sector. I've sent them all that preliminary psych eval we discussed, which should at least weed out the sociopaths, xenophobes, suicidals and extremists."

"Oh, that’s wonderful," Jim sighs, taking the first PADD from McCoy's outstretched hand and thumbing through it. "Got any good news?"

"Engineering report, Ops report, Internal Services report," the doctor counts them out into Jim's waiting hands, pausing at the last. "I didn't even realize we _kept_ an inventory of everyone's socks," he quirks a crazy eyebrow. "Did you know that, Jim? Those bean counters on Luna want to know what happens to socks in the wash." The doctor's eyes widen further. "They can get in line behind every other living thing with feet."

Spock leans over Jim's shoulder and plucks the Engineering and Ops reports out of his hands.

"Oi," Jim objects.

Spock ignores him.

McCoy watches them both carefully. "So, you two are..."

"What?" Jim raises his eyes and his eyebrows, pinning McCoy with a look that just dares him to finish that sentence. He knows the doctor has been working up to this moment.

"Busy for the night," Bones says easily. "You're busy for the night."

"Not at all." Spock seems totally at ease despite the awkwardness of the situation, although he surreptitiously straightens his shirt while McCoy isn't looking. "You are most welcome to stay. Your insight has proven valuable with respect to recruitment."

"Well now," McCoy tries to hide his satisfaction upon hearing that. "I don't want to intrude."

"Too late for that," Jim grins, shooting a mischievous look in Spock's direction.

Spock sighs, which is more emotion than McCoy's ever seen him show outside of extenuating circumstances. "Perhaps you could invite Lieutenant Ho to join us?" he then suggests.

If Bones was shocked by what he'd seen earlier, it's nothing compared to how he looks now. Spock gives him the patented, _please do not assume that I am an idiot, doctor_ expression with an extra little hint of extra superiority thrown in for good measure.

McCoy opens his mouth to curse or laugh, seeming unsure which, but it turns into a small sound of acknowledgement. He nods at them with his lips pursed, "how long have you two known?"

"Two point six weeks."

"Two point seven," Jim corrects Spock quickly, a frown on his face. "I told you before that second meeting with Pike, remember?"

"That was pure conjecture."

Jim holds up his index finger sternly. "When you're proven right, it's called intuition."

McCoy wipes a hand down his face wearily. "You're kind of sickeningly domestic together."

Both men turn. One offers an eyebrow, the other a one-fingered salute.

"Sweet Jesus."

"Go get your girlfriend," Jim taunts in response. "Spock and I have to drop some new blueprints off at the courier. Meet you back here in an hour."

-:-

Jim and Spock exit the subway wrapped in wonderful anonymity. The night has descended with a coastal chill, bundling them into coats and scarves; disguising Spock even further with a beanie pulled down low over his ears. Here, out of uniform and away from officialdom, Jim can pretend they're just two guys, two people together, getting on with life the way everyone else seems to. He pushes the ever-present threat of Nero to the back of his mind and takes Spock's hand where it swings between them, relishing the instant return pressure of those gloved fingers against his own. They converse softly as they walk, heads bent together as they trade concerns and solutions that cover everything from personnel to completion deadlines, all identifiers removed, safely censored for the sidewalk.

With the trusted courier in sight, Jim acts on impulse and bundles Spock into an alley. Alert but trusting, Spock allows himself to be pulled out of sight, hardly even seeming surprised when Jim presses him back into the brick wall and kisses him with feeling.

"With Bones and Ashe coming over, I just wasn't sure how long I'd have to wait to do this," Jim breathes against his lips, eyes darting up to Spock's and then closed again as he repeats the gesture, pressing closer in the night air. "It definitely couldn't wait until they leave."

"No?" Spock asks, voice warm and intimate.

"Hell no," Jim insists, leaning back to pull his gloves off with his teeth so he can press his bare hands against Spock's chilled face. He stares at him, bewildered by the unfamiliar depth of feeling all over again, as though it's a new revelation, not one he keeps continually rediscovering.

Spock reaches up, one hand circling Jim's wrist, not to push away from the contact, but to hold it closer. "I am grateful you did not do this in the presence of our CMO and Chief Tactical Officer," he says roughly.

"Might have really given Bones something to be surprised about?" Jim's low chuckle fills the small alley with sudden humor, his blue eyes twinkling.

Spock's demeanor shifts in response as he turns his head to kiss the palm of Jim's bare hand. "I anticipate familiarity will soon negate such a response."

"You planning on making out with me in front of Bones on this mission?"

"Certainly not," Spock replies, straightening his posture and his clothing. "However, there are still seven days before our shakedown cruise."

Jim laughs heartily even has his heart rate increases in anticipation. "You're joking!" he scoffs, allowing Spock to extricate himself and reposition his satchel over his shoulder. He grins harder, standing in the alley with his hands on his hips as Spock walks away wrapped in dignity. "You _are_ joking, right?" When no answer is forthcoming, he jogs after him. "Seriously, though?"

"I shall meet you at the apartment," Spock informs him without turning. "Please do not forget Doctor McCoy's preference for hot sauce."

"What? No! Answer the damn question!" Jim calls after him, disrupted by his own laughter. "I call bullshit!"

-:-

Long after dinner, just before midnight, McCoy carries Ashe from the apartment, her thin and wasted legs dangling over his arm, bouncing limply with each of his energetic steps. The wheelchair doesn't fit in the single person elevator, a design flaw that Spock has no doubt made a mental note to raise with Equal Opportunity. It breaks Jim's heart a little, but Ashe is smiling blindingly, her arms hooked around McCoy's neck, her laughter bubbling over, breaking through the doctor's defensive gruffness and revealing the tenderness within. He'd never have thought it, but the two of them are a good fit, better in their differences than Jim and Ashe could ever have been in their similarity.

Spock sees them to the door, unsmiling, but somehow it isn't required. Everyone in the room can read between the lines, can read Spock just a little. When they're gone, he turns, all fluid grace and questioning eyebrows. Jim feels an ache in his chest, a reminder of the emptiness that is left whenever they're apart. It leaves a fear-filled new hole in Jim's life; this connection.

"Help me tidy?" he asks, more to keep Spock in the room than because he has any true desire for neatness. Their half-finished conversation hovers between them like a preliminary alert, making Jim feel jumpy and cautious.

They clean away the cups and plates, Jim keeping up a steady stream of chatter while Spock says nothing, merely placing things within easy reach by Jim's elbow or hand as he stands at the sink. Finally, there's nothing left to clean and Jim leans back against the counter, propped up on one hip, drying his hands on the towel.

"You want to play chess?"

"If you wish."

Jim nods, throwing down the towel and crossing into the main room to begin setting up the pieces. In all honesty, he's tired and it won't be much of a game, but it means at least another hour of grace. He lines up the pawns, trying not to think of how Ashe had allowed McCoy to drape her legs over his lap, or the way they'd traded gentle kisses from time to time. It had seemed easy, intimate, tender even. Spock didn't do that with him, probably never would, and that was okay so long as …

Warm hands settle on Jim's shoulders from behind. "I am not by nature a publicly demonstrative person," Spock confesses, voice low and soft by Jim's ear.

"That's okay," Jim assures him quickly, knowing he means it, barely even surprised that Spock judged his mood to perfection. "I don't think it's that, I just ..."

Spock turns him gently, searching his face with warm, brown eyes. "You wish for people to know."

"Is that so bad?"

"I had thought to spare you the difficulty of appearing to have earned your sustained position of Divisional Commander in an underhanded manner."

Jim huffs out a little laugh, feeling the absurdity of such a thing eclipse his fear of Spock's reaction. "You didn't want me to look like an ambitious floozy?" He shakes his head. "Spock, I _am_ an ambitious floozy. I have been for years."

"Not everyone will see our situation as you do."

"No," Jim's eyes narrow with concern. "Some of them will think you've lost it."

Spock quirks an eyebrow.

"The plot," Jim clarifies, "your marbles, that you're unstable or something."

"I have never been more mentally at peace than I am when I am with you."

Spock lays it out in such a quietly honest way that it makes Jim suddenly breathless. He's left standing, lips slightly parted, wondering if it's possible to blank his whole life and start over again from right there. "That has to be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

Spock's thumbs rub gently at Jim's shoulders. "And this is the first time in my life I recall being referred to as romantic."

There's a goofy smile blooming on Jim's face as he lifts one long fingered hand from his shoulder and turns it, pressing a fond kiss into the palm. "We're going to own this, the _Enterprise_ , the mission, everything."

Spock slides his hand away from Jim's shoulders to cup his jaw. "Yes."

"In that case," Jim musters all his tattered courage and takes a deep breath, "there's something I'd like to ask you."

Spock stills, instantly attentive. “Perhaps we should conclude our earlier conversation prior to…”

"Keep staying with me?" Jim blinks and rushes on hurriedly, "I mean, it's okay to say no, I totally understand. Logical to say no, even, because Vulcans live so much longer than humans, so I'm assuming half Vulcans do too, and I know I drive you crazy but I'm just selfish when it comes to you and I really ... _mpfh_."

"Cease speaking." Spock firmly covers Jim's mouth with his hand.

"That's a no then," Jim whispers when the hand is cautiously removed, but there's a strange look about Spock. His eyes are incredibly wide, his brows almost drawn flat, face paler than Jim can remember seeing it outside of the sickbay or decontam.

"Woah," says Jim, gripping him by the elbows.

"Ask me again," Spock demands tightly.

"Spock, what the hell?"

"Ask me."

Jim swallows around a dry mouth. "Stay with me?"

"Yes."

The reply comes so quickly upon the heels of his own words that Jim takes an involuntary step back. "I'm sorry?"

"I said yes," Spock repeats, looking as shocked as Jim feels. "Provided of course that you fully comprehend what the undertaking entails."

"I do," Jim insists, then reconsiders, "at least, I think I do." He quickly gathers everything he's gleaned from being with Spock and combines it with the mindmeld flotsam Prime left behind and the measly scraps of information he's managed to extract from the Core. "A mental bond, monogamy, proximity telepathy, _pon farr_ ..."

"You are aware of _pon farr_ and you still wish to be bonded?"

"How could you think I'd let you do that with someone else?"

"Jim," Spock says, a little brokenly. "I do not know _what_ to think."

“Well, I do,” he insists firmly. “I don’t care what else happens, I want you in my life. EPAS, Starfleet, VSA, Fleet Academy,” Jim flails his arms expressively, cutting through his own litany of potential futures, “a goddamn auto garage, I _don’t care_ what we do after Nero. None of that matters, none of it changes anything.” Wordlessly, he takes Spock's hand and shapes the fingers, presses them into his face, eyes never wavering. "My mind to your mind," he says firmly.

"... my thoughts to your thoughts," Spock finishes for him, fingertips shaking against Jim's skin as they slide together in a dark mix of fear and longing.

"Spock, what could you possibly be afraid of?"

 _... a hand that slips from his | fists in his face, too different, too human | fingers digging into his skin, pulling roughly away from his mind | shame and loss and overwhelming wrongness | flight and fear | on his knees, Vulcan is gone, no need for the comm from his father, he already knows about Mother | Pike, who comes so far and no further | fleeting touches on his hand that he misses so much | a lonely life, isolated, difficult, uncertain | Jim, I do not know how to tell you this ..._

Jim's vision is shorting in and out, jerky camera flashes of reality against the overwhelming presence of Spock in his mind's eye. All he knows is there's hot breath against his neck, a bruising grip on his face.

"I am sorry," Spock whispers. "I cannot permit this. In order to make the bond, I must drop every control."

"So do it," Jim manages. "I guarantee you'll find far worse in my brain."

Still Spock hesitates, skirting the fringes of Jim's consciousness and the edges of his personal space. “You do not know what you ask.”

"Tell you what," Jim let his eyes slide closed. "Show me whatever it is you're so worked up about, just put it on out there, and if I'm as horrified as you obviously think I'm going to be, then we can reconsider."

The sound of Spock swallowing fills the room. "Acceptable," he says, then _wham_ , Jim is watching a younger version of Spock ...

... dressed in Vulcan robes. The day is hot, even by Shi’Khar standards, and his mother does not cope well with the heat. It is a trait that Spock has inherited to a degree. It makes him perspire in the middle of the day, small beads of moisture on his brow and between his shoulder blades. It is a human thing to do, but more to the point, it is wasteful, and Spock rages inwardly at his inability to overcome this weakness.

"Spock, please reconsider accepting," his mother presses patiently, her damp hair sticking to her forehead even inside. "Either the Science Academy or Starfleet, whichever you prefer."

"Father does not consider Starfleet suitable employment for someone of our House," Spock answers, his inner turmoil making his voice sharp. "And you do not believe I will succeed at the Academy."

Amanda shakes her head. "No, I said I do not believe you will be _content_ there. I said nothing about success or failure."

Spock's fists clench at his sides. "Knowing my father's opinion of Starfleet, why do you continue to present it as a viable option? Is it because you, like others, believe that I will fare better amongst humans than I do here, on Vulcan?"

"Spock," she sighs. "This is not about how Vulcan you are."

"No," he says through clenched teeth. "It is about how human I am."

His mother's eyebrows arch in concern. "Your control is poor today."

"The practices are harder for me," he snaps. "Everything is harder for me."

Her face softens. "You mustn't blame yourself."

"I do not," he assures her, his eyes filled with accusation.

His mother presses her lips together, sits back in her chair. "I will not apologize to you for giving birth to you, or for being human."

"I want neither your remorse nor your pity."

"Spock, please, you're young now, but one day you'll understand that ..."

"Enough!" The sound of his shout echoes around the stone walls, reverberating back in snatches, a dysmorphic and unintelligible explosion of anger and sorrow. "I leave Vulcan within the hour. I did not come here to debate my decision, merely to inform you of it."

Amanda's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You can't deny who you are, Spock. You can't run from this forever."

"I am merely attempting to focus my energies in a productive manner."

"Don't think I don't know the average lifespan of an EPAS Point," she accuses, rising from her chair, her voice rising with her. "What happened with T’Pring, Spock, don’t let it shape your future to this extent. There will be other offers, other minds that ..."

"You are laboring under a misapprehension," he informs her coldly. "My decision has nothing to do with T’Pring or the bond."

"Right now, _everything_ about you is informed by that experience," she objects, bottom lip trembling. "I know you’ll deny it, but I see the pain in your eyes, I see what their words made you feel. To reject you on such spurious grounds speaks only to their own close-mindedness and inability to see past their prejudice. I hate that you believe the things they said. I’m furious with your father for allowing that so-called ‘test’ in the first place. You’re supposed to have emotions, we all are, even Vulcans. If yours are more dynamic, closer to the surface, then it’s only logical considering your genetics. If they’d only allowed you more time to prepare..."

“You delayed the bonding ten years to allow me sufficient time and I failed.”

“Don’t say that!” she orders, coldly furious. “Don’t you dare say that. I won’t allow my influence to ruin your future like this. I’ll talk to T’Pring’s family, make them see reason…”

Spock clenches his jaw at her words. "Mother, please..."

"Stay," she begs, "and we can petition the Kholinar Adepts at Gol to help you. If you truly want to follow the Vulcan way, I have faith in your ability to purge all emotion. Try to put this behind you and move on with your life."

"I _am_ moving on," he clasps his trembling hands behind his back. "Just not in the manner most convenient to you."

"What is it that you need from me?" she pleads. "What haven't I done?"

"The past cannot be changed. It is illogical to persist in trying." He is calm, suddenly, as though all the rage and fear has leached away to leave behind a chill, hard emptiness. He will never have what she wants for him, will never be truly Vulcan. "I have no wish to debate this further."

"Spock," his mother says sternly. "So help me, if you do this..."

His fluid bow is full of mockery and bitterness. "Goodbye, Mother."

-:-

Spock makes to pull away, to break the meld, but Jim takes a step forward as he takes one backwards and grabs his elbow before it falls.

"I never spoke to my mother again."

"And you think, what?" Jim whispers, "that I'm going to hate you for that?"

"I am not who you think I am. A bond with me could be dangerous for you."

"Because you’re not a perfect Vulcan, whatever the hell that is?” Jim laughs weakly through the wake of emotional transference. “You’ve got to be joking…”

But Spock tears his hand away, leaving Jim reeling, disorientated, unable to stop him as he stalks from the room, not even bothering to close the door in his wake. Breathing hard, eyes watering, Jim leans on the bench for support and wonders what the hell just happened.

  



	38. chapter 6.6

Christopher Pike startles awake to the sound of his comm bleeping. With a groan and a muttered curse, he slings his legs over the edge of the bed and fumbles in the dark for his cane. Wobbly and unprepared, he staggers to the bedside desk and flips audio only.

"Pike here."

"Chris, it's Jim," comes the disembodied voice.

"What's up, kid?" Pike asks, softening his tone and taking a firm hold on the anxiety that springs up in the wake of Jim's informality and evident tension. He's had maybe one or two phone calls that started like this is in his life; one when Winona called to say George had been killed. The other was Riverside County Hospital informing him that his godson was an involuntary psych patient. The potential for disaster is almost tangible.

"I, uh...I'm not sure, actually."

"Okay," Pike nods to himself, swallowing. "Want to open visual?"

"No, I'm good," Jim declines. "Just, can you get me a line to the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth?"

Pike takes deep, calming breath. "You want to talk to Spock's father?"

"I know he's still with the _Tat'sar_ , but going by Universal Ship Time, I won't be waking him."

"Jim, what is this about?" he asks, certain he already knows part of the answer.

"I'd rather discuss that with Sarek," Jim apologizes.

"Jim, I..."

"Please," he interrupts, sounding very young. "Please, Chris, just do this for me, yeah?"

Pike hangs his head and presses his lips together, entertaining the possibility that once again, he's meddled to the detriment of a situation he was only trying to improve. The irony is, Jim is trying to protect Spock's privacy by going directly to Sarek. For a moment, Pike considers telling him the little he knows, then dismisses the idea. He does have limits when it comes to these two, and Vulcan cultural mores are far beyond that purview.

He recalls Spock’s applicant psych profile, the one that lay buried in his archived file beneath years of exemplary service records, medical reports, physical rehabilitation plans and commendations. Introverted, intuitive, rational and judging. INRJ-types were known for being independent, original thinkers with a keen analytical mind and almost overwhelming determination. They made great Point Ones and exceptional leaders. Their weaknesses generally revolved around the guilt of failing to meet unattainable expectations, and Pike knows that. He knows that and has been proud as Spock seemed to avoid such pitfalls.

He should have realised Spock was simply adept at hiding what was already there.

 _The Applicant appears entirely suited to EPAS and far exceeds minimum selection criteria. However, Psychiatry make particular note of his ongoing state of emotional compromise regarding his former betrothal and recommend further debriefing be undertaken to avoid potential negative psychological ramifications. Without appropriate therapeutic intervention, it is unlikely that The Applicant will be equipped to form the lasting personal bonds, whether telepathic or otherwise, that are necessary for members of his species, rank and personality type._

"Yeah, okay," Pike capitulates, nodding to Jim. "Let me get dressed, at least from the waist up, and I'll patch you through."

  
-:-

  
“Divisional Commander Kirk,” Sarek acknowledges calmly, hands steepled on the desk in front of him in a way that is strikingly reminiscent of Spock.

“Ambassador.”

“I confess, Admiral Pike has given me some understanding of the purpose of your call.”

Jim tries not to sigh in relief. “I want you to know I feel weird about this, about going behind Spock’s back, but I need facts, sir,” he insists. “I can only hope logic confirms how I feel about this.”

“That is an aspiration I share.”

“Then I’m just going to go ahead and ask my question,” he says, taking that for parental approval. “Is it dangerous to bond with Spock?”

Sarek considers him with such stillness and for a long period of seconds and Jim begins to fear the connection has frozen. Just when he’s about to do something embarrassing like punch the screen, Spock’s father’s eyebrows slowly rise towards his hairline.

“You speak of a permanent bond, not simply a meld?”

“Yes.” Jim keeps it short, to the point, adhering to the Vulcan aversion of emotion to keep him from freaking out all over again.

Sarek is silent once more, studying him at length. It makes Jim twitchy, that kind of scrutiny. He feels like a bug under a microscope, like a teenager on the night of his senior prom. He fights the scowl he can feel forming on his face, trying to make a good impression and hoping that’s not weird at all.

“Huh,” Sarek says eventually, as though he has been unexpectedly and pleasantly proven wrong. “Although I suspected my son’s feelings on the matter, I had assumed Admiral Pike to be mistaken about yours.”

“Pike knows me pretty well,” Jim replies, because it's not an admission or a denial. “I need to know the truth, and I’d just ask Spock except I don’t think he knows.”

“It is quite likely he believes he does.”

“Yeah, he’s prone to that,” Jim acknowledges wryly.

“James Kirk,” Sarek says with the full weight of his Vulcan gravity. “I can unequivocally assure you that a bond with my son would entail no less and no more of a risk to your mental and physical well-being than a bond with any other Vulcan. His views on the matter were formed in an environment of prejudice and based on the opinions of a House with insular tendencies.” He frowns down at his fingertips. “It was a match I should never have approved.”

“T’Pring?”

“Is alive. She did not perish with Vulcan-that-was,” Sarek confirms. “Not that she or her family should have any bearing on the situation.”

“No,” Jim agrees, filled with a heady mixture of relief and determination as he grins wholly inappropriately at a high-ranking Ambassador. “But it might give me the chance to gloat when she realises what she missed out on.”

Sarek is more subtle about it than Spock, but Jim can tell he’s smiling, just a little. “Although the motivation behind her family’s rejection remained private, many drew their own conclusions and Spock suffered the consequences.”

“Rumour mill’s a bitch,” Jim agrees. “Thank you, Ambassador. I appreciate your candour.”

Jim terminates the connection to the _Tat’sar_ but continues to stare at the blank screen. Sarek’s words reverberate against the inside of his skull, generating a headache, perhaps because he is still tender from Spock’s abrupt mental withdrawal. A new resolution settles around him and he knows opening up these old wounds is going to hurt like hell. Still, he has to follow through, has to face his demons. He owes Spock that much, owes himself even more.

It’s extremely late or very early by the time he blinks properly and forces himself to bed.

  
-:-

  
Spock doesn't sleep that night. The EPAS Accommodation Building seems alien to him after only weeks of cohabiting with Jim.

He spends the chill, dark hours in silent meditation. He carefully and painstakingly reconstructs the barriers that permit him to function; the walls that hold him together. He has come perilously close to never being able to do so again. The realization makes him suddenly nauseous. He presses a hand against his stomach in reaction, then calms, using his internal controls to soothe and put an end to such responsiveness. That very action reignites the cycle of his own self-doubt, plunging him back into the chaos of his human side and its emotionality. It is a vicious cycle; a pattern well-worn.

Fate would have it that there is a knock on his door just as his shields settle back into place, protective and insulating.

He pushes to his feet, unfolding a little stiffly from his cross-legged position, but by the time he opens the door only Jim's retreating back greets him. He doesn't turn, doesn't give Spock a hint of what might be going on beneath the surface, merely tosses a command over his shoulder.

"Get in the car."

The dawn air is crisp and slightly damp, the sun not yet above the horizon. Jim jerks the door open and seats himself behind the wheel, eyes straight ahead, never once looking in Spock's direction. Minutes pass, Spock is certain of it, although his internal sense of time seems to be malfunctioning. He is not even conscious of having made a decision when he finds himself sliding into the passenger seat with nothing except the clothes on his back; those from the night before.

Jim doesn't say a word, just stamps his foot on the gas and pulls out into the quiet, slumbering city.

They drive for hours in silence, but it's not the comfortable kind that Spock has grown used to between them. The moments are charged with uncertainty and the very air around Jim's body screams of fear and guilt and revulsion. Wherever they are going, Jim is dreading it. That, more than anything else, makes Spock decide that accompanying him was the correct decision.

Hours upon hours of endless freeways and flat cropland later, they arrive at their destination with the silence unbroken. Jim exits the car. As he waits for Spock to do likewise, he swings the keys around one finger over and over again. His casual lean with feet crossed at the ankles, wouldn't fool a passerby, let alone someone who knows him as well as Spock does.

When he draws level, Jim pushes off from the hood and shoulders his way into a cramped little diner. Spock assumes there used to be the normal buzz of human conversation present, but when he steps inside, the place is deathly quiet. All eyes are on Jim, who just stands there, hands loose by his sides. It's the pose of a man facing impossible odds. This is Jim's ultimate no-win scenario.

"How dare you?" a middle aged woman pushes smartly to her feet, outraged. "How dare you show your face in this town, Jim Kirk? After what you've done?"

"Just passing through, Mary," he replies tightly.

"Not fast enough, by my measure," she hisses, chair scraping on the ground as she leaves her table.

Jim lets her approach, allows her into his personal space, even though Spock can clearly see what it costs him to do so. Every line of his body speaks of abject terror. It makes no sense.

Mary reaches up and slaps him hard across the face, so fast that Spock can do nothing to stop it. Jim slowly turns his head back to center, a red mark rising on his cheek. "Feel better now?"

"Nothing will ever atone for what you did, but it's certainly a pleasure to wipe that smug look off your face. They should have let you rot in prison." She slaps him again, short and sharp like the sound of wood breaking.

Galvanized, Spock steps in, grabs her wrist, places his body so the action cannot be repeated. "You are assaulting a decorated enlisted officer," he informs her coldly. "That is a Federal offense."

"Who are you, his bodyguard?"

"His Captain."

Mary's eyes narrow nastily and she jerks her hand from his grip. "Better watch your back, then," she advises. “Jim has a problem with authority figures." She slams out of the diner, setting the small, old-fashioned bell over the door jangling.

Spock turns to Jim for an explanation, but his blue eyes are flat and blank, his jaw clenched tightly. Curious, Spock turns to see what has captured his attention and finds that every customer is regarding them with poorly concealed fascination and animosity. No … not them, _Jim_.

"Come on, Spock. I've got what I came for."

  
-:-

  
"Jim!" Spock calls, jogging to catch up.

Kirk had fled the diner as though hell itself was after him, and from their reception, perhaps it was not so far from the truth. Spock is still uncertain as to the purpose of this visit to Riverside. All he knows is that he has been brought here to see something. Even now, all he has are questions not answers. Jim ignores him, a seething figure clad in dark jeans and a plaid shirt, his boots kicking up dust as he make his purposeful way on foot down a very long unsealed road.

The sun beats down on them relentlessly and Spock's questions are ignored, leaving him with far too much time to contemplate his own history and the continued ambiguity of his future with Jim. The sun-warmed vegetation grows sparsely in the drainage ditches, straggling and parched even now, in the wet season. There is green everywhere, almost overwhelming to a Vulcan, and yet it still reminds him of the desert. The landscape is whittled down bare, like glistening bone. Spock can see some of that in Jim in this place, now so hunched and guarded, barely two steps ahead. Troubled, Spock puts one foot in front of the other and ignores the fine silt that coats his boots, his cuffs and settles like chalk in every crease and wrinkle. The soil finds the human perspiration on his alien skin and sticks there, making strange earthy patterns. He notices the effect absently, strangely detached, almost numb.

Almost suddenly, they reach a house. Spock is unsure how it could have taken him by surprise, considering the unrelenting flatness of the landscape, however he does have to pull up short to avoid bumping into the fence. Jim leaps up the front steps two at a time, goes up on his toes to feel above the door and comes away gripping a swipe card.

"Mom's not home," he explains briefly, passing the card through the slot with a flick of his wrist.

"I do not understand why we are here," Spock confesses, examining the neglected house with new interest now that he has inferred the connection to Jim's childhood.

"You will."

The fear rolling off Jim is clouding Spock's ability to think clearly. Bound by loyalty and a kind of morbid fascination, he follows Jim's tense shoulders into the abandoned house. The rooms are closed and dark, but Jim makes no move to open anything.

"This," Jim says pointing at the staircase, strangely come alive with manic energy, "is where Frank broke my arm the first time. I think nominally, it was because I talked back to him, but he was already looking for an excuse." Jim turns to his left and indicates the old-fashioned fireplace. "He liked that, especially the grill. I think he got off on the smell."

Spock's fingers slowly curl into fists at his sides. The house takes on an unfamiliar malevolence, creeping into his awareness like the emotional aura of a person, not a place. He suppresses a shudder and the impending realisation it brings.

Jim disappears into the next room, the kitchen, but his voice carries easily. "The sink in here is where he used to hold me under, and of course you can't go past the wooden spoon for a bit of fun."

Spock's knuckles blanch as Jim returns to the room and grabs him by the shoulder of his shirt, towing his rigid body along relentlessly.

"Of course, bath time was always a blast," he narrows his eyes, blinks at the ceiling as though trying to recall. "I think I must have been twelve the first time he got me to touch him. I remember the assignment I had on photoelectrics."

Spock's lungs refuse to either expel air or inhale more. He is frozen, heart pounding.

"Oh, and my personal favorite," Jim sets off in a new direction, pulling Spock in his wake. "The den."

He releases his grip on Spock to crouch down near the far wall, fingers trailing along the brickwork until he finds a little hole that will just about admit his finger. "Nine millimeter round," he says conversationally, poking around in there, "beautiful antique, right here." He thumps his sternum, "through the chest."

"... Jim." Spock does not recognize his own voice.

Kirk stands, plants his hands on his hips and lifts his chin. "Frank was an asshole and a drunk, but more than that, he was a child-beater and a pedophile," Jim shrugs, screwing up his face in that way that's meant to convince Spock he doesn't care, but utterly fails to do so. "My point is, I can be as justified as I like, but out here, in this county? I'm just the fuck up who murdered his stepfather."

Spock wants to say something, but can find no suitable response. Nothing in his life has prepared him for this truth about Jim, or the sudden insight into the nature of intimidation, power and revenge.

"Whatever emotions you’re hiding, they can’t possibly be worse than the things I’ve felt," Jim tells him sternly, somehow oozing conviction even though he looks like he might throw up. "Sarek says T’Pring’s family was wrong about you, and I believe him."

"You spoke to my father?" Spock has to sit down. No, he has to leave. He wills his muscles to obey, but they rebel against him, trapping him here in this dingy room with only Jim and crippling embarrassment for company. "He spoke to you …of that?"

"Whatever regret you feel about your mother, she should have made you understand that being alive is _all about_ feeling.”

Spock feels flayed, feels shattered past hope of redemption. "Perhaps," he whispers. “But you must understand, it is different for Vulcans. The parent-child bond is something no Vulcan should sever. That I did, and with my mother, is unconscionable. I was motivated by emotion, and _that_ … that is unforgivable."

"I’ve seen what can happen to a Vulcan who can’t handle emotion," Jim nods, clearly reluctant but still inexorable, like a force of nature. "T’Loren showed me that and I’ve seen glimpses of it in you, too. But you know when to stop. You have that capacity, Spock, you have limits. I _trust_ you to know where mine are, too. Is that what I saw in our last meld? The loss of that connection with your mother?” He swallows heavily, shakes his head. “And then she dies,” he whispers, “and you can’t undo what you’ve done.”

Shocked, Spock feels his eyes begin to burn. He will _not_ weep, not ever and certainly not in front of another, not in front of Jim. He musters the shell of his formerly admirable control and nods. "I could attempt the Kholinar. I could go to Gol."

"No!" Jim snaps, hands flung into the space between them, eyes blazing. "You do that and I lose part of you forever." He runs newly shaking hands through his hair and glares at him. "Jesus fucking Christ, Spock, if I ever get my hands on the people who invented that, then I really _will_ deserve to rot in prison."

Spock discovers that he is leaning on the low bookcase by the door, his hands leaving shapes in the heavy dust, his bitterly human perspiration marking the wood with damp little fingerprints. He disgusts himself. He flashes back to that ocean on Vega, the first time he'd met Jim, because this, too, feels like drowning. He hangs his head, bracing himself, against what he is not even certain anymore. Perhaps the weight of further revelations because he cannot absorb anything more, not a single word.

"So, yeah," Jim says awkwardly, clearly drained. “I don’t give a damn about those people out there," he points vaguely at the rest of the world. “I don’t care how Vulcan you are or how human. If you can handle my past, I can sure as hell handle yours.”

Again, every available response sticks in Spock's throat, inadequate. Through sheer strength of will, he forces himself to stand upright, to breathe again, to function. His heart is racing in his side as he looks across at Jim, as he meets those impossibly blue eyes and finds in them a terror equal to his own.

"We can go now, if you like." Jim turns and yanks firmly on the blinds, sending light cascading into the darkness, shielding his eyes and letting loose a single cough. It sounds like a retch.

"Yes," Spock manages, plucking the keys out of Jim's with clammy fingers. "I will drive."

  
-:-

  
It is a measure of Jim's level of preoccupation that he doesn't even notice they're heading the wrong way until they turn onto the I-70 East towards St. Louis.

"Where are we going?"

Spock does not reply, so Jim lets his head fall back against the headrest, toes off his shoes and splays his feet out on the dashboard in the setting sun. Spock glances at them, space-pale and clean against the car's interior. The act more than doubles Jim's risk of serious internal injury should they become involved in a motor vehicle accident, but he simply renews his grip on the wheel and on his vigilance.

"You haven't said anything."

"No," says Spock, agreeing.

Forty one point nine miles pass and they stop for food at Louisville only after Jim's stomach growls loud enough to affect Spock's concentration. Jim eats a burger and Spock has a soda water. It might be dinner or breakfast, but time has lost all meaning. Jim falls asleep somewhere between the I-57 and the I-24. Spock considers the possibility that they are both experiencing a level of shock. Logic dictates he is in no fit state to operate a motor vehicle. He continues regardless.

When they reach their destination, Spock brakes with deliberate care, but the cessation of movement wakes Jim anyway. He blinks wide blue eyes and scratches over his scalp with blunt fingernails.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Atlanta."

" _Georgia?_ "

Spock unlocks his door and exits the vehicle. The muscles in his back and shoulders cramp painfully after the enforced period of inactivity. Jim tumbles out the other side, stretching with joint-popping results, apparently similarly affected. The air is full of jasmine and unseasonable roses, both of which are growing along the picket fence of the white weatherboard house Spock has chosen as their destination. Jim trails in his wake, appearing sleepy and bemused, but the resonance between them speaks of deep seated tension and anxiety. It makes Spock waver in his resolve, though only momentarily. It is not in his nature to leap without looking, but Jim has led the way and he owes it to him, and perhaps to himself, to take his turn.

Jim joins him on the front step, a mere handspan between their shoulders. "What are we doing here?"

Spock knocks on the door with his knuckles, there being no other method of drawing the attention of this dwelling's inhabitants.

There is some measure of grumbling and cursing from within and Spock does not miss Jim's raised eyebrows of astonishment when he recognizes the voice. The door swings inwards to reveal Leonard McCoy. Whatever else he may be, McCoy is a healer. Spock feels a momentary surprise that he trusts that. First, do no harm. True of so few people in his life.

"What in God's name?" the doctor growls. "What time is it? Aren’t you two are supposed to be in San Francisco. I left you there the day before yesterday. Why can't you stay put?"

"You are a doctor," Spock tells him, as though McCoy might not be aware of that fact. "I wish you to legally notarize our Vulcan bonding."

"Say _what_ now?" Bones exclaims.

Jim bursts into hysterical laughter and then covers his mouth with both hands.

McCoy gives them both a once over, his pale eyes piercing. "Not before I give you both a psych evaluation. Get in here."

  
-:-

  
McCoy blusters about the inconvenience and the way he never really gets shore leave, not _really_ , but he boils water and alerts Ashe without thinking twice. Eventually, all four of them sit around the polished table nursing hot cups of tea and staring at each other with varying degrees of wariness and exhaustion.

"You both look like shit," McCoy informs them bluntly.

"I took Spock home to Iowa," Jim says, as though that explains everything. From the sudden blankness on the doctor's face, perhaps it does.

"Unplanned, I take it?"

"I had my reasons," Jim counters, guardedly.

"First time you've been home in how long?"

"Over fifteen years."

"To see your Mom?"

"No, to visit Frank."

"Jesus, Jim."

Kirk's eyes harden. "I thought you’d be proud of me."

McCoy leans back in his chair, free hand absently seeking out Ashe's. "I am. Kind of hoped you’d prepare a bit more, but I am."

"Then that’s settled.” Jim answers quickly.

"Look," says McCoy, leaning forward and resuming his initial dark frown. "If you're not going to explain what brought this on, then you can take your voodoo bond and hit the road. Recently, I might have been tempted. God knows the two of you have made enough of a holodrama out of things without me throwing a wrench in the works, and just when you seem to be getting your shit together, too. However, try to see this from my point of view. You turn up on my doorstep looking like, well … like _crazy_ people and tell me you've revisited the worst demons of Jim's past so you want me to _marry_ you?" McCoy withdraws his hand from Ashe's grip and folds his arms across his chest. "No. No way in hell."

"It’s more like a betrothal. Spock can do the bond, all we need from you is ..."

"The doctor has a point," Spock steps in, suppressing a flinch as Jim rounds on him with an expression of betrayal. "Even if circumstances were different, it would be inadvisable to attempt an immediate bonding. My initial comment was … poorly considered," he admits, holding onto the tattered edges of his usual calm. "I will require meditation prior to any mental contact and you are in need of sleep. Also, I believe there are still things we ought to discuss." He focuses solely on the hurt in Jim's eyes, willing him to understand. "For once, we have time at our disposal,” he adds in an undertone. “Let us go about this in a logical manner, minimizing the potential for further misunderstanding between us."

Silence holds around the table for uncounted heartbeats. Jim and Spock lock eyes while Ashe and McCoy look on. Finally, reluctantly, Jim begins to nod. "Okay, you're right," he admits, tiredly. "I don't want to screw this up. Let's do it properly."

"Wise decision," McCoy approves, glancing aside only to find Ashe doing the same thing as Jim reaches for Spock's hand and tangles their fingers together a little desperately. "Spare room is at the top of the stairs. You'll find towels in the linen closet and a bathroom through the third door."

They leave without further ado, quietly and tiredly making their way up the stairs in tense silence.

McCoy remains staring at Ashe, noting the concern and affection warring for dominance on her face. He thinks of all the complexities that haunted _their_ initial attraction, the long-distance comms, then all the careful dancing around regulations and doctor-patient relationships. It pales in comparison.

"God, it's like I can't breathe when they're around," she confesses, sad and wry at the same time.

"I know what you mean."

"It's going to be brilliant or catastrophic."

“Claustrophobic.”

“Cataclysmic,” she grins, showing off.

Leonard smiles at her indulgently. "Never boring."

  
-:-

  
Jim precedes Spock into the bedroom and stands with his back to the door, hearing the creak and the click as it swings closed. He knows it's irrational to want the bond so strongly, especially since he’s awake enough to remember that the thought of it should probably terrify him. Right now, he feels gutted, emptied, like he's bleeding out in great scarlet fountains and nobody else can see it except Spock. He turns, finds Spock watching him intently, a darker shadow against the dimly lit corner.

"God, I want you," he confesses, seeing Spock's breath hitch and knowing it's mutual. "Can that be enough tonight? Can we make it that simple?"

"I do not know."

Jim crosses to him, never taking his eyes away, feeling that deep pull in his chest and the pit of his stomach. He reaches out, unfastens Spock's jacket with deft fingers, feeling that alien heart rate escalate as he runs his hands up and under the shirt beneath, smooth and lightly furred skin so hot to the touch.

Spock shivers and his hands cradle the back of Jim's head, bringing their mouths together in a searing kiss. Jim relishes the slide of tongue, the sharpness of teeth and rasp of stubble against his lips. Desire flares suddenly, overwhelmingly, making him press closer against Spock's angles and heat.

"I want you," he says again, stripping away his own shirt. "Please," he insists, burning with the need to erase the memory of T'Pring and Frank with the rightness of the connection they share. He tries to mark Spock with his acceptance, welcome him with every touch and word. Tries to pull him down on top, wants to feel the reassuring weight of him, but Spock balks, rolling aside so they face each other.

Jim thinks he gets it. "You know, you never once reminded me of..."

Spock cuts him off with the pressure of two fingers, a Vulcan kiss to his human lips. "I know, _ashayam_. He is never in your thoughts and for that, I am grateful."

"Then, why ..."

"I wish for the bond. It is a fundamental part of who I am, of _what_ I am. It would be so easy, too easy, to reach out and take it when neither of us is ready." He frames Jim's face with carefully light hands. "I desire to create it intentionally, when it happens; to be conscious of every thought, word and gesture."

"No mindmeld tonight."

"No mindmeld," Spock agrees.

"But I can have the rest of you," Jim insists, pressing the heel of his palm into Spock's groin. It is not a question.

"Yes," Spock answers roughly, affirming that with the shift of his hands to Jim's hips as he brings them closer together.

Jim replies with touch, not words. His palms ride down Spock's body, fingertips dancing over ribs, counting them, so close to the skin. He presses wet kisses against collarbones and inhales the warm, spicy scent of him. It's never been like this between them; a burning desire to consume completely. Jim thinks of his lover clad in EPAS blacks, aloof and untouchable aboard the _Stalwart_ and revels in the ability to catch that pale skin between his teeth and swallow breathless exhalations from his parted lips.

Carefully, he rolls his body on top, kissing the angle of Spock's jaw with his teeth, gently tonguing the hollow beneath his earlobe. He finds he doesn't want Spock naked, wants instead to slide beneath the barriers of clothing, the constant reminders of that Vulcan reserve and privacy. Jim bunches the fabric under Spock's armpits, pressing their stomachs together as he slides a thigh between Spock's own. The fact that he's allowed, the accepting shift of Spock's body as it wraps around him, the half-articulated noise he makes, all of it does terrible things to Jim's self control. He wants to drive Spock crazy, flushes hot with the desire to drive every rational thought from his logical mind. There has been too much thinking today, too much emotion by far. Now is the time to simply give in to feeling. He whispers as much against Spock's navel, feeling the muscles clench beneath soft skin as he trails feather light lips downwards, following the silky hair there to the point where hipbones press against a fitted waistband.

Spock's body is gorgeous. Not heavily muscled but decidedly masculine, all lean lines and clean definition, sculpted by hours of running and years of Point work. Jim tells him so, breathes it hot against the clasp of his slacks as he unfastens it and draws the waist down Spock's thighs, looks up and catches his eyes. Spock's hands grip the headboard a little desperately, his face flushed in the low light, and Jim admires the flex of muscle across his chest where the shirt has been pushed aside. He takes Spock's hardness in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, savouring the taste and heat of it, almost lightheaded with the knowledge that he is the only one Spock allows so close, the only person to whom he surrenders this.

Jim is no innocent, and he employs every trick in his arsenal to propel Spock towards the ragged edge as hard and as fast as he can. He reads the tension in Spock's body, the flex of his fingers and the sounds he makes to perfection. He looks up just in time to see those dark eyes slam closed as Spock gasps and comes in hot spurts, hips arching off the mattress. Jim eases him through it, memorizing the sudden smoothness of his brow and the way his hands flop aside every which way, boneless and relaxed in the afterglow. If it's possible, he's even more beautiful like this: debauched, with his prized control in tatters.

Jim crawls lazily up Spock's body, tucks his elbows either side of his chest and smooths the short, dark hair back from his temples. Gradually, Spock comes back to himself, eyelids fluttering open to reveal the warmly dazed expression Jim is starting to prize above all others. Before Spock can say anything, Jim kisses him thoroughly, relishing the slide and warmth of tongue and lips. When they part, he rests their foreheads together. "I'll never get tired of that."

Spock huffs once, verging on a laugh. "To my benefit, not yours."

"Hardly," Jim protests, breaking the sentence with another toe curling kiss. "You have no idea, no idea what it means to me that you want this too, after everything." He leans back to study Spock's face, to press kisses against his eyelids and scratch his fingertips through the first hint of dark stubble on his jaw. "Shower with me?"

Spock nods.

They stand together under the hot spray, the lighting patchy through the open ensuite door, grateful to have the upper floor and some vestige of privacy. Jim slowly rocks into Spock's fist, leans into his solid warmth and comes hard, feeling grateful and unfamiliarly secure.

 

 


	39. chapter 6.7

Jim blinks into the mid-morning light. At least, he thinks it’s morning. It could quite well be afternoon. He feels like he might have slept for days. McCoy's house is silent, save for the sub-audible sound of Spock's breathing. The mirrored door of the closet affords him the luxury of observing the way they are tangled together, Jim on his back and Spock sprawled across him. The sheets have twisted in their legs, exposing Jim to anyone who might care to wander into the room, but it doesn't bring the vulnerable feeling he's spent nearly a lifetime suppressing.

He stares at Spock's reflection in the mirror, at the definition of each cord of muscle in his forearm and thinks of the strength that's written there, of how that demonstrates the many ways Spock has simply held on and refused to let go. How hard must it be for a Vulcan, trained from birth to be almost passive, to become a Point? And not just any Point, but a damn good one? How does Spock reconcile that passion with the idea of who he's expected to be?

Jim meant what he said; he can't think of Spock as dangerous. He remembers the handful of mindmelds he's seen performed and the trepidation with which Spock approached each and every one, even the first between _them_. Jim remembers the Romulan on the surface of Aspera and actually feels nauseated for a moment. Guilt floods him like hard spirits, burning down his face and throat to rest hot and uncomfortable in his gut. He has a moment of lying there, shame following hard on the heels of his guilt, as he studies his lover's face for lingering trauma. Now he knows it must be there, concealed beneath the skin.

Itchy with the need to _do_ things, Jim can't lie in bed any longer. He knows any deliberate movement will wake Spock, who even in sleep seems able to distinguish between Jim's unconscious thrashings and his conscious ones, so he preempts it. With firm hands, he threads his fingers through Spock's hair, massaging against the warmth of his scalp. Spock makes a small, inarticulate sound of contentment and blinks. They lock eyes in the mirror, brown on blue, and Jim sends his hands skimming down Spock's body, letting him watch. The movements are fond, affectionate, designed to impart comfort and appreciation. Spock's gaze follows every touch as though fascinated.

"I have to get up," Jim says softly. "I need to go for a walk, or something."

"Shall I join you?"

It's telling that Spock even asks, so Jim just shakes his head. "Go back to sleep. You look like you need it." He presses a kiss to one pointed ear and gracelessly slides out of bed, steadying himself with one hand on the floor. When he looks up, Spock's eyes are laughing at him in the mirror. He smirks back and reaches for yesterday's clothes. Together, they will make sense of everything, he's confident.

When he pads down the stairs in his socks and turns into the kitchen, he's struck by how different it looks in daylight. Ashe is waiting for him in the sitting room, reclined in an armchair with a PADD in one hand and a self-heating mug of coffee by her elbow. She glances up as he walks in.

"I'm going to assume that Spock is still asleep because he's healing and not because you wore him out with your sexual antics, so don't shatter my precious illusions, okay?" she says dryly, raising the coffee to her lips.

Jim grins, feeling the skin pull tight across his face, realizing for the first time that he's probably sunburnt. "Is it weird for you, the two of us?"

"How could it not be?" she points out, setting down the mug without looking. "Fuck's sake, Jim, I was in love with Spock and screwing you at the same time."

"You didn't love me?" he teases, pretending to sound horrified in order to cover the pounding of his heart. "I feel so cheap."

"Manwhore," she grins back, leaning over to punch him in he arm as he takes the chair next to hers. "Of course I love you, you cretin. I love you both." She shrugs, the smile fading a little to sit more comfortably. "Difference is, now, I'm _in_ love with Len."

Jim screws up his face and laughs once before turning back to ask, "and how exactly did _that_ happen?"

"Unlike some superior officers I could mention, I'm not in the habit of flaunting my romantic liaisons in front of the whole crew," she delivers crushingly, giving him her haughtiest eyebrow. It's such a Spock-like gesture, exactly the sort of thing Jim first noticed upon his allocation to Prime Division: the way the crew seemed just the tiniest bit Vulcan. It floods him with nostalgia.

"Quit stalling and spill," he instructs to cover the fondness he feels.

She casts her eyes over him appraisingly. "Give me a second to get into my chair. You need to get some fresh air before you start tearing Len's house apart with your teeth."

“What day is it?” Jim asks.

Ashe barks out a laugh and tosses her PADD onto the sofa with an easy flick of her wrist. "I've missed you, Jim."

-:-

There's a warmth in the air that feels unseasonal. Despite the fact Jim has been living dirtside for months, he still doesn't have a grip on what month it is, what time of year. He's been from the West Coast to the East and now landed himself in Georgia. He says as much to Ashe as she wheels along next to him, but she just clucks her tongue and waits.

"So, you and Bones..." he says, leading them back to topic.

"Yeah," she laughs, smiling crookedly at her knees for a moment. "I'd never have thought."

"I guess I would," Jim offers, realizing the second he speaks that it's true and not a platitude.

"Really." Ashe glances up at him, her gaze a little hard around the edges. "You don't strike me as one of the most emotionally perceptive people I've met, no offense."

"Like recognizes like." He flashes her a grin that vanishes quickly.

"That's it, insult the cripple. You better take it easy, or I'll run you down like a dog. I've got my all-terrain tires on."

Jim laughs at that, feeling some of the tension ease between them. Apart from anything else they've been, he and Ashe have always had an inherent similarity. That hasn't changed since her accident, even if he's only just coming to that realization. She spins along with hard thrusts of her arms, the movement easy and so confident he can almost forget the way she used to stand by his side in the gear lab, one hip cocked against the bench as she methodically cleaned her Point kit.

"You going to be okay in Tactical?" he asks. "I've never pictured you riding a desk."

"I'll be using a console, thank you, not a desk. The only thing I'll be riding is Leonard."

"Whoa." He holds his hands up. "Over-share."

She grins wickedly. "Share and share alike."

Jim presses his lips together over a smile, fighting down the blush he can feel coming on. Ashe is good at getting under his skin because historically they share a similar approach to sex, but both of them know their current partners are different, worlds apart from the easy physical release that typified past encounters.

"It's logical for you to love him," Jim offers, putting it out there because it needs to be said, and because it's an easy redirection. "You complement each other."

Ashe sighs heavily. "God, you even _sound_ like Spock."

"Answer the question."

"It wasn't a question," she snaps, "and you know it."

"It wasn't," he agrees.

She purses her lips and pauses to navigate around a pothole in the sidewalk. "At first I thought I was in love with the _idea_ of Leonard," she confesses, "much like I felt about Spock. That's hard for me to say, but I always knew the torch I held was one part lust, two parts hero worship." She sniffs, glancing at him. "And why not, right?"

"I get it."

"I'm sure you do," she agrees, archly, "but you'll never really understand what Len and I have."

"Why?" Jim wants to know, frowning at a letterbox for no apparent reason other than convenience. "I've never wanted to screw Bones, but that doesn't mean I'm immune to his charm."

"No," she shakes her head, "you've never wanted anything easy in your life. It goes against your chemistry, or something. What Len and I have is so damn _simple_ , you know? I never have to wonder what's going on in his head because he wears it all on the outside; one great bleeding heart on display, billboard-sized for the world to see. I've never had courage like that, but I don't have to, because he sees right through the bullshit to the heart of me."

Jim swallows, ignoring the inopportune rumble in his stomach. "I can actually relate."

"Maybe you can," she allows, "being with a Vulcan."

"Scary as shit."

"Yep."

They travel on in silence, letting the strange symmetry settle, each of them wrapped in their own thoughts.

“Pike called while you were asleep,” Ashe says eventually. “He wants you to call as soon as you’re awake.”

Jim nods, hands thrust into his pockets, aware that once again there isn’t going to be time to regroup or to take stock. Every moment of revelation in his life seems destined to become sandwiched between one crisis or another. He stops short and sighs. “You should have told me earlier.”

Ashe tilts her head up at him and blinks. “It sounded like it could wait, or I would have.”

“What are you, yeoman now as well as CTO?”

“If you think I’m bringing you coffee, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Why not? You’ve got room for a little urn under your seat.”

She slaps him hard on the ass, the sound startling some pigeons into the air. “I’m going to tell Len you said that.”

“Better make it bourbon, then.”

She grins, all teeth, exactly like she used to the moment Nix rode the slingshot out into a firefight.

  
-:-

  
“Spock, Kirk,” Pike nods at them. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

“I’m good without it,” Jim quips.

The humor seems to reassure Pike. Certainly, the crows feet framing his eyes relax a little as he scrolls through some items on his desktop PADD before looking back up. “We’ve had some alarming news from the _Gallant_ and the _Reliant,_ both of which were dispatched to support ‘Fleet maneuvers along the edge of Nero-controlled space. They report two resounding victories for Federation forces, both with minimal losses and significant gain in territory.”

Spock and Jim exchange a look.

“That is unexpected,” Spock says, because Pike appears to be waiting for it.

“With Nero’s superior tech and firepower, that doesn’t make any sense,” Jim agrees.

“Believe me, I know,” Pike says heavily. “Which is why I’m bringing it to your attention. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have an Orion on your Ops rotation who’s particularly good with spatial software development?”

“Lieutenant Gaila,” Spock supplies without hesitation. “She has an unparalleled knowledge of adaptive coding for three-dimensional data points.”

“Well, call me crazy, but while F-Sec are busy celebrating our supposed successes, I’m sitting here thinking this spells serious trouble. Nero doesn’t lose against our depleted forces and he sure as hell doesn’t retreat without a reason.”

“You think it’s a trap, sir?” Jim asks.

“I don’t know what to think,” Pike deflects, “but I want you to take that historical tactical data you showed me and map it somehow. I want a big damn map with lots of pretty colors and hopefully some useful predictions. The map to end all maps, am I clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good. Let’s just hope the same can be said for Nero’s plans.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow. “Given what we know of his past behaviors, accurate prediction of future engagements seems unlikely beyond a generalized trend. Despite all efforts by Starfleet and its allies, he has consistently forged a path towards Earth and the other central worlds. Although the frequency of military conflict has decreased in recent times, it is unlikely he has wavered in this resolution.”

“I agree,” Pike says. “But Jim’s always been right about that tactical data; there’s something there that doesn’t make sense.”

“Too many seemingly random actions,” Jim nods in agreement. “Too much emphasis placed on strategically unimportant gains while he gives ground in the face of minimal resistance.”

“We have to believe he has a master plan; one that we can analyze and counter.” Pike is determined, leaning over his desk as if to reach them with his urgency. “We have to believe it because the alternative is far too terrifying.”

“The alternative?” Spock enquires.

“That he’s insane,” Jim supplies quietly. “And how the fuck do you predict the actions of a madman?”

  
-:-

  
McCoy walks into his kitchen around midday and stops short, taking in the way Ashe, Spock and Jim are crowded around a PADD on the table. With a sigh, he drops the groceries on the bench and turns to face them. "I take it the wedding is off?"

  
-:-

  
Jim reaches Gaila while he and Spock are walking through the Atlanta spaceport. He cups his hand around the communicator and longs for the ease of EPAS earbuds.

 _Jim, can you hear me?_

"Loud and clear," he affirms, sliding sideways between a family of tourists, apologizing under his breath. "Pike get hold of you?"

 _Sure did, sunshine. What's your ETA?_

Jim glances at the flight schedule and the transporter queue. "Twenty minutes if I can convince Bones to beam or two hours if he cries like a baby."

"Hey!" McCoy growls.

Jim covers the microphone on the communicator and frowns back. "Nobody's forcing you. Stay here and see out the rest of your shore leave, you man-child."

"Asshole," he grumbles, but Jim's teasing hits home and he switches lines, steeling himself for the transporter instead. "You know that part in a wedding where people get to object? Yeah, well, be prepared. Someone has to stop a sensible Vulcan from saddling himself with a juvenile reprobate like you."

Jim grins and turns back to the communicator. "Should be there in half an hour or less," he tells Gaila. "Just hack the door if we're late."

 _I'll bring cupcakes_ , she promises and hangs up.

Jim catches Spock's disapproving glance and slaps him reassuringly on the shoulder. "It's not a crime if we don't press charges."

"Yes it is," Ashe interjects.

"The Lieutenant is correct," Spock says.

Jim glances back and forth between them, nodding with his hands on his hips. "Oh, I see how it's going to be."

Torn between laughing and cursing, McCoy is first on the transporter pad. He eyes the overhead field dubiously and then shoots the technician a look that ought to fry him on the spot. "If you get so much as one molecule out of place, I'll drag my mutant carcass back here and make your life a living hell, you hear me, son?"

The young man looks to Spock for guidance, clearly out of his depth. "Captain?"

"Ignore the doctor. Proceed with transportation," Spock instructs, taking his place amongst the rest of them, Ashe and Jim to his left.

"Ignore me? _Ignore me?_ I'll have you know that there are several long-term studies exploring the dangers of transporter technology that the Department of Health conveniently overlooks every time a budget review comes up, and add to that ..."

Silver sparks fly and the erstwhile crew of shuttle ED996 disappear, McCoy's tirade interrupted mid stream. The technician wipes his brow with his sleeve and gestures to the next flabbergasted holidaying family.

They eye him warily.

"Are you kidding me? It's totally safe!" he exclaims.

  
-:-

  
As luck would have it, Gaila's cab pulls up just behind their own, leading to an impromptu but far more legal reunion in the street. It's all subdued fist bumps and nods, the odd _ta'al_. It’s almost like the traditional Vulcan greeting has become their personal handshake, a way they can acknowledge their friendship whilst still being inclusive.

They file into the apartment one by one, spreading out and commandeering the available work surfaces with PADDs and flimsies. It should probably be weird that Bones is the one who offers drinks, but underneath the grumbling he’s just programmed to be hospitable. He opens the fridge and curses to find very little there.

They make do with coffee and tea, Ashe and Gaila already immersed in the raw data Jim is feeding them from his own spreadsheet, the result of recent weeks working with Pike and months longer on his own. He'd started asking this question back on the _Stalwart_ way before the new order, when Spock seemed unshakable in his role as DivCO and Jim had been afflicted with a bad case of insomnia that only math seemed to cure. He turns at the memory and catches Spock's gaze on him. It's a handful of seconds amidst the concentration and the bustle, but Jim is almost certain they're both remembering that night, spooning in a tiny EPAS bunk, dead on their feet the next day. He smiles, and although there's no answering expression he finds he doesn't need it.

Hours pass before Jim realizes how consumed he's been by the data. He stretches with joint-popping results and because there's no rank in his kitchen, Ashe scoots in behind him and works on his stiff shoulders, easing the tension almost immediately. Perhaps it's something about the familiar burn as she expertly finds all the right spots, but Jim's eyes suddenly alight on a minute discrepancy in the math. He leans closer to the PADD, earning him an irritated swat from Ashe who can no longer reach him. He ignores her, fingertips skating across the device, enlarging the formula and feeling his heart rate escalate. He runs the sum again and gets the same analogous result. With new urgency, he rattles out a few lines of search code and executes it. Within seconds, his PADD is dinging softly with multiple hits.

It's only when he crows triumphantly and pumps his fist beneath the table that he realizes everyone else has been watching him the whole time. He glances around warily. "What?"

Bones forms a disgruntled frown. "Share with the class?"

Gaila claps a hand over the doctor's mouth. "Ignore him, boy wonder. We'll all be nice and quiet while you finish being a genius."

Jim laughs softly to himself but turns back to the search results and starts looking for inconsistencies. Two hours and eighty data points later, he has a p-value of zero point zero zero one and a confidence interval that would make Chekov weep for joy. "Here," he says, spinning the PADD so everyone can see. "Here is the reason why Nero doesn't give a fuck about the neutral zone anymore."

An amber line weaves it's way almost directly from the point of the _Narada's_ first sighting, through Vulcan-that-was, Vega, Solis-allera, Robicon and Aspera. Everyone in the room is mathematician enough to know three-dimensional data doesn't align like that unless you've got a foolproof null hypothesis.

"Jim," Gaila breathes, looking awed. "That is the ugliest tangent I've ever seen. Your graph-smoothing code is fucking atrocious."

It breaks the excited tension perfectly and there are scattered chuckles around the room.

Spock's eyes are on him, deep and brown and proud. "Extrapolation?" he requests, his calm voice cutting across the group momentum without distracting them.

"It's not a straight line," Jim shrugs. "I'm not sure if that's because I'm not as smart as I think I am, or if it's important, but if you're asking where Nero is headed, then yeah, Earth seems to fit." He flicks the code and the graph from his PADD to Gaila's via the wireless network so she can work on a definitive answer to that question. "Right now," he adds, "all this is good for is giving us a trend and telling is where Nero _isn't_ going to be."

Spock steals a copy for his own PADD and plots it against a more comprehensive star map. It's immediately apparent that Federation forces are concentrated in an area that doesn't correspond. He frowns, calculating that the bulk of Starfleet's defensive capacity is more than two days travel at warp five away from somewhere useful. "The fleet should not have gathered in the Laurentian System," he observes. "Even prior to this new discovery, it was a questionable choice."

"Nothing in that system except rocks and cows," Gaila agrees.

As one, they all turn to stare.

"What?" she asks blankly. "Asteroid belts and agricultural worlds is all you'll find there, so unless the cows are packed full of future-tech, I think Laurentia is safe."

McCoy snorts and Ashe smiles wryly, but Jim raises his hand for silence and leans his elbows on the table. "Say again?"

Gaila gives him her best confused expression, all frowny face and copper curls, but complies. "I said it's all asteroid belts and agriculture."

"No," he waves her on urgently, "the other part."

"Just that Laurentia is safe because there's no future-tech," she finishes, bemused.

Jim makes grabby hands at his PADD, fingers snapping in urgency until someone tosses it back across the table. He latches onto it and starts sorting data at lightning speed, muttering under his breath, only the curses loud enough to be audible. He's gripped by that simultaneously blissful and terrifying feeling of divine inspiration, desperate to translate the thought into action before he loses the context and the connection. His fingers fly across the touch screen, his notes mangled by autocorrect as he focuses all his attention on getting the code right above all else. Two lines from the end he has to take a gasping breath, unaware that he'd stopped breathing in order to concentrate. He laughs at that, a little distractedly, then hits the debug and waits for the whole thing to compile.

Two hundred and seventy three spelling and grammar mistakes but not one hole in his code. Numb, Jim sinks back down into his seat and pushes the PADD away from him with a touch of reverence and a hint of distaste. "It's not about the planets or the ships or the _lives_ ," he says wonderingly. "It's all about the fucking _tech_ that falls through the rifts."

Spock plucks the code from their network grimly, working at something while everyone around the table waits in silence. A few minutes pass before their Captain lifts his eyes from his PADD and turns it to face them. "Nero's trajectory is not linear because neither are the temporal anomalies."

"So we predict the next rift, we get the jump on Nero," Ashe says thoughtfully. "Surely someone has to have done some work on that? Some agency or organization? Some pimply postgraduate student?"

Gaila nods decisively. "I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a girl who has a friend."

Jim leans back in his chair, smiling because even now, amidst all this, she's still Gaila. "Why does that not surprise me?"

“I can’t vouch for the acne.”

  
-:-

  
Gaila’s acquaintance turns out to be paranoid to an almost cliched degree and refuses to meet with them even though he lives within walking distance. Instead, he nominates an elaborate dead drop system and specifies that Gaila must do the pick up and has to go alone.

Jim doesn’t like it. Pike likes it less. Spock sends Ashe with Gaila for protection, which makes McCoy the person who likes it the least. He blusters around, frowning and muttering under his breath until Ashe gives him a very pointed look.

“Leonard, I might be in a wheelchair but I passed all my recommission physicals and I’m the goddamn Chief Tactical Officer. This isn’t going to be a problem, is it?”

“No,” he assures her. “You could be a seven foot tall Klingon warrior and I’d still be worried about you,” he turns to include Gaila, “about both of you.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Gaila coos, “and also kind of sexist.”

“What? I just…”

“The point is, this information is dangerous,” Jim interrupts their banter. “Everything we do from now is dangerous.”

“No one knows what we’re up to,” Gaila scoffs. “Pike hardly even knows.”

“Oh, people know, make no mistake,” Jim insists. “The true mission of the _Enterprise_ is classified, and if there’s one way to make people gossip, it’s to shroud something in secrecy. F-Sec are talking to ‘Fleet, the Admiralty are talking to the Council who talk to their aides who talk to their friends…the list goes on.” He eyes them all in turn, all except for Spock, who is unlikely to forget about the Federation rumor mill. “They might not have the detail, but it’s enough to know that _Enterprise_ is no ordinary EPAS ship. Any weapons tech who loaded our photon torpedo bays knows that. They guy who upgraded our internal inertial dampeners knows they’re battle standard, top of the line. Same goes for our shields, phasers and thrusters.”

The silence hangs heavy as no one can deny it.

“Our mission is to finish this conflict, once and for all, so we can all go back to rescuing stranded leisure yachts."

They nod, make eye contact with each other, nod more strongly. There’s an upswell of determination in the room that’s almost tangible.

Spock stands, tugs on his shirt and logs their data with an orderly twist of his fingers on a PADD. "Time is of the essence," he observes. "For all we know, Nero is one move away from his final goal, whatever that may be."

"There hasn't been a pause like this in the war since the _Narada_ first emerged from the rift," Jim agrees, then swallows, "since the day the _Kelvin_ was destroyed." There's a brief silence as everyone wordlessly acknowledges why Jim remembers trivia like that. "I prefer it when he's hassling us over colonies and trade routes; at least then we can engage him, pin him down a little. According to Pike, Nero's fleet hasn't been sighted since that last skirmish."

"It is pointless to theorize a current location when extrapolating his next destination is sufficient," Spock observes.

Jim raises an eyebrow. "And if that next destination is Earth?"

"Then we fight.”

 

 


	40. chapter 7.1

The lights snap on at one hundred percent, jolting Jim out of a restless sleep before McCoy's urgent shake of his shoulder even registers.

"Wake up," the doctor orders, "both of you. Amber alert. Pike's on the comm."

"Sitrep?" Spock demands, voice a little hoarse from sleep as he rolls briskly over Jim and reaches for the rest of his clothes.

"No idea. The connection literally just came through and Pike's first orders were for one of us to fetch you."

Spock stamps his feet into his boots, for once in his life not bothering with the fastenings. "Understood."

McCoy disappears and they both turn to follow.

Jim halts Spock with a hand on his arm. "It's Nero, isn't it? It has to be him, that asshole. Do you ever have the sense that the universe is just fucking with us?"

-:-

"So, we've got one, maybe two hours at best," Pike concludes moments later, his image condensed and pixellated on the unauthorized secure channel Scotty and Chekov had rigged once they came on board with the project. The signal is bounced all the way around the planet, making illegal use of private satellites, so there's a slight but detectable delay in the send/receive.

"I'm not entirely comfortable keeping this intel from F-Sec," Jim says cautiously, blindly clutching at the mug of scalding coffee Gaila presses into his hands. "They're assholes, but we're talking about the fate of the planet, here."

"I agree," Spock says. "Earth's defenses are already compromised by the deployment of the fleet in the Laurentian System. Would it not be logical to..."

"Sorry," Pike holds up a hand, "sorry to cut you off, but what do you think will happen to the _Enterprise_ when the Admiralty learns Nero is about to make a play for Earth?"

"Confiscated," Jim nods. "She's a ship of the line, a battleship. We'd lose her in a heartbeat."

"And the Minister for Health be damned, even though in Starfleet's hands, one ship will never make a difference," Pike confirms. "I've already spoken to President Wescott, he's given me thirty minutes grace. Thirty minutes for you to secure our ship."

"The President is in on his own coup?" Jim looks impressed.

Spock's eyes narrow in thought. "Gaila, open a channel to Lieutenant Scott. Make him aware of our predicament and request his input. I need to know the _Enterprise's_ current space-readiness."

"She's up at the orbital shipyards, so atmosphere and life-support are functional," McCoy rationalizes.

"Yes, thank you doctor, I am aware."

McCoy bristles and shoots a glare at the back of Spock's head, but holds his peace.

"It's the warp core we need to worry about. Get that online and we have weapons and shields; without it, we're just target practice," Jim reminds them, glancing down at his coffee like he's only just realized he's holding it.

"I've got Scotty," Gaila announces. "Patching him in."

There's a brief pause, then the comm screen splits to accommodate Scotty's face alongside Pike's. The Chief Engineer looks far too chipper for the middle of the night. "Well, this can't be good," he observes with a wide-eyed stare. "Admiral, Captain, Commander," he acknowledges as an apparent afterthought.

"Scotty, tell us about the warp core," Jim gets straight to the point.

"Fully installed and ready for testing," Scott says proudly. "And might I say what a beauty she is, too."

"About that testing phase..." Jim begins, smiling apologetically.

Scotty deflates. "We're not going to have one?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"Jim, you can't just cold-start engines like these! They need to be coaxed like wee little bairns. It's not like putting in a new light globe and flipping a switch!"

"I appreciate your position, Mr. Scott," Spock placates, "but we have no choice. Make ready for imminent departure with full warp capacity, shields and weaponry."

"You've got to be joking!"

"Vulcans do not joke," he says, standing there in the kitchen with his hair sticking up every which way. "Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, Captain?" he sighs wearily.

"It is vital that F-Sec remain unaware of our true intentions."

"Right. No problem," Scotty says, biting and sarcastic. "I'll just tell them they're imagining our heat signature, shall I?"

"If you think that will work."

The engineer scowls at the screen. "Hilarious, you are. Scott out."

The screen slides back to a single view of Pike whose smile is at odds with the tension around his eyes. "After seeing the modifications that man has designed for your nacelles and phaser recharge banks, I'm beginning to see why you put up with him."

"Scotty is an acquired taste," Jim agrees. "But he's a genius."

"Let's hope it gives you the edge against Nero." Pike directs his eyes to Spock, who appears absorbed in thought. "Captain? Can I rely on you to handle your end?"

Spock looks up, every inch the commanding officer despite his appearance and surrounds. "If our mission is possible, we shall accomplish it."

Pike swallows heavily. "Of that I have no doubt, but Spock," he pauses, glances around the people assembled in Jim's kitchen, pulled from their makeshift beds around the apartment. "Jim, Leonard, Ashe, Gaila," he lists them, making eye contact and then doubling back to Spock and holding it. "We've got a plan B for a reason. All we have is a wiggly line and a prayer, so if this doesn't work, I expect to see you all at the rendezvous in twenty four hours or less. I want big damn heroes, not big dead martyrs, am I understood?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Okay," Pike nods, relaxing a little. "Go get 'em."

The connection blanks and Jim flexes his fingers a few times before shaking them out. "So… who's ready to start a revolution?"

-:-

Spock steps up to the kitchen table, his EPAS blacks obscured by the long coat and scarf he's now wearing. Everyone else is similarly attired, with some civilian clothing to mask the obviousness of their affiliation. It's near enough to five in the morning and Pike's allotted thirty minutes are already ten minutes lapsed. The time has been spent gathering equipment, dressing, and attending to basic necessities such as eating and drinking. It all happens with a quiet efficiency that would have put shipboard crews to shame. Here they are, ready for action, ready to hear what their Captain has to say.

Spock thumbs his comm, neatly tacked to the folds of his scarf. "Frequency check."

A series of clicks follow as each person thumbs back, confirming the same encryption value and settings.

"Weapons."

Jim checks the phaser he's got tucked into the holster in the small of his back. McCoy doesn't have a uniform with him, but he does have a neat little pistol that fits into the back of his tricorder case. Gaila has two phasers, one in each boot and a mean looking knife at her hip. Ashe has long ago fitted a holster under her seat. She grins up at Jim while she flicks the settings to stun. "No room for your damn urn."

He grins back, feeling the first tickle of adrenaline edge into his system.

"Are there any questions?" Spock says prior to giving the order to move out.

"What vessel is Pike sending to the rendezvous?" Ashe wants to know. "I don't want to get arrested for thumbing a ride on the wrong ship."

"I do not believe the Admiral has secured our transportation at the time of his communication."

"So we're just going to make a run for it and hope that..."

A window-rattling boom cuts her off mid- sentence. Around the place, people grab for tabletops and doorjambs as anchors. Spock strides across the floor to the north facing window. The burnt orange glow of a fireball bathes him in its warm light. The others rush over, crowding round in silent horror.

"Nero risked an in-system warp," Spock observes, turning to catch Jim's eye. "This changes everything."

Jim tries to stay calm, he really does, but the _Narada_ is drilling a hole in his fucking _planet_ and his thoughts on that are far from unemotional.

The moment is shattered by a hail on the encrypted frequency.

 _Captain Spock, this is Captain Senekot, do you read?_

There is a collective moment of surprise, but Spock quickly thumbs his comm. " _Tat'sar_ , this is Spock, over."

 _The co-ordinates provided by Admiral Pike for your extraction are now compromised. Suggest alternative, over._

Spock's eyebrows do finally raise at this. "Acknowledged. Propose new rendezvous bearing twenty six point four degrees north," he adds, then gives the location of the dead drop they were set to pick up come sunrise.

Jim steps forward, stalls him. Spock mutes the comm and redirects his attention.

"Commander?"

"The drop might not have been made yet," Jim reminds him. "We were told after seven. Granted, he could have deposited the data at any time, but if we turn up early, en masse, we might spook him."

"I think the giant Romulan warship in the sky has that possibility covered," McCoy says wryly.

Spock glances between them. "The data will be there, or not. _Kadi'ith_. It is a strategically viable place from which to launch our twofold approach."

"And if Nero deploys ground troops?" Jim asks, still playing devil's advocate.

"I believe the question is 'when' not 'if,'" Spock replies, turning his back on the drill flare. "Our only advantage lies in taking them by surprise. We will not appear affiliated with Starfleet's inevitable retaliation. We must move quickly and decisively but remain unseen as long as possible."

"You don't think Nero will be scanning for your biosign?" McCoy chips in. "No offense Spock, but you stick out like a sore thumb whenever anyone scans."

"The dead drop is located within the heart of the drill platform interference zone." Spock tilts his head in acknowledgement. "An imperfect solution, perhaps, but the electromagnetic interference may act as a shield."

"It will also prevent beaming," Ashe reminds them. "But I'm guessing you've already realized that."

"Indeed," Spock nods. "Even without the interference, ground-to-ship beaming would endanger the ship at best and reveal our intentions at worst. It will no longer be possible to beam aboard the rendezvous vessel. The situation is problematic."

 _Captain Spock, co-ordinates received. Advise your estimated arrival time,_ Senekot's voice breaks in.

Spock reopens the channel. "Fourteen to seventeen minutes, conflict-dependent," he informs the Vulcan ship. "Acknowledge."

 _Acknowledged. We can provide support in the form of a small away team, munitions and intelligence. Tat'sar out._

"Move out," Spock orders.

"And the beaming issue?" Ashe presses. "We've still got to get aboard our damn ship."

Jim steps between them, zipping his leather jacket to conceal his weapon. "I'm on it."

The team file out the door, leaving only Ashe paused in the doorway and McCoy still staring out the window.

"Len?"

"Please, Lord," McCoy murmurs under his breath as he gazes up at the tower of fire raining down from the _Narada_. "Let today be the day we blow that sky high and he _doesn't_ build another one."

He turns on his heel and sweeps Ashe up in one arm, the collapsible chair grasped in the other. The twenty-third century is still an imperfect world, but he hopes for better, dammit, because he has no choice.

-:-

At this hour, the streets should be silent and still, populated only by the earliest of risers and shift workers. Instead, the darkness is filled with frantic footfalls and hushed whispers as the civilian population wakes to flee an apparent apocalypse. Several times they round a corner to come face to face with a terrified father gripping a phaser, his children cowering behind him, or a group of young women who clutch each other and cringe from the phasers being pointed at them.

After a time, Jim finds he has to wipe perspiration out of his eyes. The night had been chill, but his trigger finger aches from nearly shooting the innocent. McCoy is on point with him and looks equally strung out.

Finally, after about fourteen minutes, they make the dead drop location unchallenged.  
Gaila holsters her phaser and crosses the street alone, feeling around the rim of the trash receptacle with careful fingers. The rest of the team disperses into the night, communicating via comm clicks and only to confirm positions. Spock's voice drifts isolated on the encrypted frequency, his baritone orders a hushed whisper over the background roar of the drill.  
Gaila raises her arm in success and melts back into a doorway. Twenty seconds later, everyone's comm beeps with data transfer. Whatever Gaila had on that chip, now they all have a copy. Jim inwardly applauds her common sense.

Spock calls in their readiness on the long range band and orders them onto the roof for better line of sight and defensive capability. Enough doors are left ajar, security systems already blinking, that they don't have to use the fire escapes. The sun is pitching her first feeble glow over the horizon as they take cover, phasers drawn, to await contact from the _Tat'sar_.

Jim crouches and makes the short run to Spock's position, favouring verbal communication over comms that might draw unwanted attention. "Captain," he says softly, crossing his forearms over one knee to get relatively comfortable.

Spock says nothing, only offers him the tricorder.

"Holy shit," Jim says slowly. "I wasn't expecting that."

"That's a lot of Romulans," McCoy huffs, leaning in for a closer look.

Beside them, Gaila whistles low under her breath, impressed despite how horrific things have become.

Jim tallies perhaps six supporting Romulan vessels equivalent to Constitution Class or larger, plus too many smaller vessels to be worth counting. He eyeballs the enemy fleet as a whole and realizes that even without Nero's superior weaponry and future tech, Earth is hopelessly outnumbered in the air. Their odds of success just went from narrow to minor-fucking-miracle. The way Spock's jaw clenches tightly makes Jim suspect he's actually _done_ the math and the result is more in the league of grand-scale-biblical-miracle.

"So," he says, casually putting his back to the street behind their cover so he can survey the rest of the crew. "How are we planning to do this thing?"

"Jim..." Gaila begins, then seems to be at a loss for words.

He can sympathize, but that's not his job; he's the DivCO of EPAS Prime Division and the First Officer of the _USS Enterprise_. He turns to his Captain and delivers his assessment. "According to Scotty's last data packet, they've taken out the orbital platforms and all the active docked ships were destroyed or damaged beyond usability. We're damn lucky you ordered a masked warm up, or the _Enterprise_ would be nothing but scrap metal. Take into account the jamming from the drill platform and you can rule out any kind of coordinated orbital support. That means Earth's only option is a ground assault."

Spock nods, his hair shifting in the early evening breeze. "Tactical?"

"Jim's right," Ashe says, pulling a PADD from her jacket and tilting it so the Captain can see. "Our best chance of success is to beam from where they least expect to find resistance."

"Which is?" Jim asks.

"Starfleet Academy," she explains quickly. "Nero will know F-Sec scrambled all field officers because he was monitoring Federation frequencies, confirmed by significant losses due to insecure encryption. 'Fleet have switched to Ultra Violet, but the bastard has to know all that's left at the Academy is undergrads and professors." She shrugs. "That being said, it provides a direct beam-out location to Luna ..."

"... which gives us EPAS headquarters and Pike," Jim finishes for her.

"And a way to get in their blind spot," Ashe continues the thread, nodding.

Spock frowns, his eyes darting to follow his inner calculations and strategies. "The moon will provide cover for a rear offensive, provided of course, additional ships remain functional."

"They can't have knocked them all out," Gaila argues. "Nero came in so hot, he wouldn't have had time to mop up the stragglers. I'd be very surprised if there weren't at least a handful of Dreadnoughts left, plus who knows how many untried vessels docked at the shipyards along with _Enterprise._ "

"There is no way to be certain," Spock deliberates, "yet there is no better option. To risk all our efforts on a frontal assault would be unwise. At the very least, we can be reasonably certain that Nero will remain focused on delivering the Red Matter long enough that support from Federation allies may arrive to rescue survivors from Luna with greater success than if we concentrate the population in evacuation centres on Earth's surface."

"If we get as many technically trained service people and administrative staff out via the Academy, we can attempt to co-ordinate a mass surface evacuation of everyone else from Luna, and still have some semblance of a government," Ashe adds. "It's not exactly cover fire, but you're better off being one of a hundred thousand civilian targets than the only one in the sky."

"Gaila," Jim says, shifting the attention. "If the drill platform is disabled, what do you need to coordinate a timed global evacuation?"

"The Cochrane Array should do it," she answers confidently. "I can access that remotely from anywhere on Earth or Luna if you can get rid of that goddamn interference."

"And they'll hear it? Even on the night side?"

"Jim," she grins, "they'll hear it on Romulus."

"Lieutenant Gaila," says Spock. "Please include a long range communication packet flagged SOS on all frequencies."

"People might take advantage of that," Ashe cautions. "The Federation has enemies, people who wouldn't hesitate to kick us while we're down. Earth has never been more vulnerable."

Spock eyes them all in turn. "That is a risk we will have to take. The instant a channel is opened to the Array, we can expect Nero to target both the transmitter and the signal origin. I calculate we will have no more than thirty seconds of broadcast time, which is insufficient to specifically target known allies and assets." He turns back to Gaila. "Lieutenant, be aware that as the originator, your position will be compromised from the second you uplink to the Array. Nero will not hesitate to silence you and he is not known for conservative retaliation."

She licks her lips. "I'll be long gone."

Spock turns to Jim. "I trust you have developed a ..."

He doesn't get to finish the rest of his sentence because just then, a swarm of Romulan foot soldiers pours into the intersection along the building's east wall. As one, Prime Division duck down behind the retaining wall, trading wide-eyed glances, phasers pointed down but safeties off. A sharp series of orders floats up to them and Gaila screws up her face in concentration.

 _Four battalions,_ she signs with her eyes closed, focusing on the alien language. _Heavy weapons._

 _Orders?_ Jim signs back when she glances up, never more grateful for EPAS field signing.

The Romulan commanding officer barks out a few more sentences.

 _Split up,_ Gaila gestures. _Scan for..._ she opens her eyes and gives the universal gesture for 'no fucking idea.'

Spock catches it out of the corner of his eye. "Vulcan and Romulan share a common linguistic root," he whispers so softly Jim has to lean in to hear. "That word _saidere_ resembles the Vulcan _saran-tukh_."

"Technician?" Jim whispers back.

Spock quirks an eyebrow. "Technology?"

"They're here for Earth's future tech," he extrapolates.

The Romulan commander's voice trails off into echoes, passionate with emotion.

Gaila waves for their attention, a look of frustration on her face. _Cleaning?_ she signs. _Mending?_

Jim purses his lips. "I doubt they're here to fix things for us."

"Indeed," Spock says dryly.

"Well, whatever they're doing, someone ought to tell the _Tat'sar_ there are hostiles at our rendezvous."

Spock reaches for his long-range comm and then freezes. His acute Vulcan hearing picks up the first rush of a transporter beam at exactly the same time it's noticed by the Romulans below.

"Shit," says Jim, as two glowing shapes begin to resolve on the rooftop, standing in the clear and gleaming with silver sparks like a beacon. He can hear a collective shift in the street below as four battalions of armed Romulans turn and take aim. Jim has only the narrowest of margins with which to act.

The green disruptor bolts are already sailing over their heads before the materialisation sequence is complete. He launches himself at the barely resolved figures, the lingering fizz of a transporter field against his hands tells him there's a good chance he's about to fuse himself into a human-double-Vulcan sandwich. Thankfully, his palms contact solid bodies and they all hit the plascrete roof with bone-jarring force. The Romulan fire continues to heat the air above their position, but the angle is too acute.

Jim lifts his head to look at the Vulcan he's landed half on top of. His only rationalization for what he finds is that he must have hit his head.

T'Loren blinks. "Your position is compromised."

"What the fuck?" Jim exclaims unhelpfully.

The other Vulcan rises cautiously into a crouch, claiming Jim's attention. "They will be entering the building as we speak."

Jim rolls onto his heels, certain he must have concussion. "Eli, right?"

The unusual young Vulcan inclines his head. "I am gratified you remember me," he says, then glances over Jim's shoulder to Spock. "Your orders, Captain?"

Spock looks like he has a lot to say, but settles for a clipped, "all crew, strategic retreat." Then all hell breaks loose.

A nearby access hatch flips open and Romulans pour onto the rooftop, turning the place into a deadly green light show. EPAS drop three in quick succession, creating a bottleneck around the hatch, but that only works until more of them flood the fire escapes and the elevators.

" _Very_ not good!" Jim shouts over the melee, dropping the closest Romulan and appropriating his disruptor.

"Seconded!" McCoy hollers back. He's holed up with Ashe behind an air vent, trading shots with the first wave while she watches his back, picking off each new face that pops over the edge of the building with precision accuracy.

Slowly, carefully, the crew back themselves into one corner of the building. There's better cover to be had along that wall thanks to the elevator shaft and the vents. Still, they're pinned down and taking heavy fire. Then, a situation that seems dire suddenly gets worse.

Jim fires a shot that's sure to connect, but his target simply blinks out of existence and reappears in a snap of silver sparks, catching what looks like a small tennis ball sized device before returning fire. Unprepared, Jim takes a glancing hit to his thigh because he can't pull back in time. "Did you see that?" he demands of anyone within earshot.

"I did," Eli confirms. "It is a short-range personal transporter," he explains. "Quite anachronistic in this time period."

Jim glares at him while he catches his breath. "Future tech."

The young Vulcan nods. "Quite so."

"Well," Jim pants, trading another two shots and making a run for better cover. He slams down into the wall beside Eli and drops a Romulan who'd taken up residence in the youngster's blind spot. "That's just not playing fair," he finishes breathlessly.

Eli grins at him, a quick flash of straight white teeth. "I agree," he says, "and I have a plan."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Eli mimics, confiscating Jim's communicator and efficiently butchering it for the tiny but powerful radio frequency emitter. "The futuristic device must still operate using conventional matter-to-energy conversion, meaning that a large enough burst of electromagnetic radiation should..."

Eli lobs his hastily assembled solution into the midst of their attackers, launching himself after it, firing constantly to ensure the Romulans are too preoccupied to consider examining what he's thrown. There are scattered curses, but the EPAS crew rush after him providing what cover they can.

Out of nowhere, there comes one brief, high-pitched whine and almost all of the Romulans dematerialize. The others are easily picked off, stunned as they are. Jim and Spock come to a halt, circling back-to-back, weapons braced in both hands. The others gather around in the sudden silence. Ashe bumps to a halt against a nearby corpse.

"Where the _hell_ did they _go?_ " Jim demands.

Calmly, Eli flicks the safety on his phaser and holsters it. "They will return."

As though his words were some kind of trigger, the Romulans _do_ rematerialize...except they're in bits and pieces that rain down out of a halo of silver sparks. Fragments of limbs thud on the ground amongst the unpleasant squelch and spray of fluids and organs. The crew of the grounded _Enterprise_ grimace as one, all except for the Vulcans, anyway. Metallic tennis balls bounce across the plascrete like Christmas baubles. Blinking at each other, wiping green blood and brain matter from any exposed skin, they shake their feet and rub hands together to remove the mess.

"What a godawful smell," McCoy says with feeling.

Ashe lets loose a chuckle, quickly silenced.

"Your theory has been validated," Spock notes conversationally, one eyebrow quirked at Eli. "Although, one wonders at your expertise."

"I believe the human expression is 'don't look a gift horse in the mouth,'" Eli deadpans, mirroring the Captain's expression with uncanny accuracy.

"Quite."

"Okay, so now we know how to beat them," Jim interrupts, waving a misappropriated beaming device. "Why don't we join them?"

"It will certainly expedite our progress." Spock takes the device from Jim and gestures at the rest of the crew who scurry to retrieve as many undamaged units as they can find. The resultant haul is a mere three undamaged devices. After a moment's consideration, Spock allocates one to Eli, one to T'Loren and keeps the final one for himself. "Commander Kirk, escort T'Loren and Lieutenants Gaila and Ho to our base of operations on Luna. Gather as many EPAS and Starfleet personnel as possible and await the _Enterprise_." He turns to Eli. "I will gain access to the ship while you and McCoy provide cover."

"Like hell! You guys need to hack _Enterprise_ security and I keyed that in," says Ashe. She points sideways at Eli without having to look. "I'm with you and the pointy-eared ninja, there."

Spock and Jim exchange a glance. Jim shrugs. Spock nods.

"I accept the logic of your proposal."

"Excellent," says Ashe, winking at Eli.

Jim takes a half step forwards, frowning. "Spock, you're going to try to take back the _Enterprise_ with four people?"

"I am."

"That's suicide."

"It is necessary," he replies calmly. "Gather the Division, Commander Kirk, and secure EPAS headquarters."

Jim wars with himself for a moment before nodding tightly and stepping back. "Aye, Captain."

Unexpectedly, Spock steps up and claps Jim firmly on the shoulder, rocking him slightly. "I will see you soon," he says, and it is not a question.

"You better."

With that, Spock turns on his heel, pockets his phaser and lobs the short-range transporter across the wide gap between buildings. He vanishes mid-stride in a swirl of sparks to reappear at a dead run on the opposite rooftop. Eli wraps Ashe's arm over his shoulders, taking her weight easily. He offers the smallest of smiles to Jim and Prime Division. "Until we meet again," he says, and whisks them both away with a carefully pitched throw to the same roof.

"He's the strangest Vulcan I've ever met," Gaila says thoughtfully as they all stare after him.

McCoy nods to himself. "Very James Bond."

"Oh, you like the classics," she coos, smiling at him indulgently.

"What's not to like?"

"Mmm," she agrees. "He _would_ look great in a tux."

"Ahem," says Jim, rather pointedly, he feels. "If I can break up the fan club? Less ogling and more ass-kicking?"

"Spoilsport," Gaila grouses affectionately, but they form up and pick a path towards the nearest elevator.

When Jim looks over his shoulder, Spock and the others are long gone. Only Ashe's wheelchair remains on the rooftop, strangely poignant against the brightening San Francisco skyline. He imagines for a moment that she simply stood up and walked away, leaving it there, discarded. He feels as though it's time for a miracle like that.

-:-

Spock raises an arm, fist clenched, and Eli obediently freezes behind him. They've successfully hopped their way to SanFran Spaceport using their stolen future tech. Now all they have to do is remotely disable _Enterprise's_ secure moorings and find a way to get on board. As expected, the place is crawling with Romulans, all of them armed to the teeth.

"A direct approach seems ill advised," Eli offers quietly, adjusting Ashe's weight across his back. Although they are similar heights, his Vulcan strength makes all the difference.

"It may be possible to gain access via the roof," Spock considers aloud. "Defenses are likely to be less concentrated."

"Any energy discharge will alert them to our presence, and that includes these tasty little things." Ashe holds up the miniature transporter.

Spock nods in acknowledgment, shifting position slightly to gain a better vantage point. This phase of their coup was designed to be conducted prior to Nero's arrival when simply entering and exiting a public spaceport was a matter of basic security protocols. With Ashe or Gaila at any public terminal inside the building, they would have easily hacked the secure shipping network and disengaged the mag clamps chaining the _Enterprise_ to her orbital dockyard. As things stand, simply gaining access to the building is unlikely.

"Suggestions?" Spock invites.

Ashe draws breath but Eli beats her to it. "I will gain access to the building alone and install a backdoor subroutine enabling remote access so that Lieutenant Ho may complete our mission."

Spock turns very slowly to glare at him. "How do you propose to accomplish such a task?"

"With careful planning," Eli responds innocently, "and a degree of serendipity."

With that, he gently props Ashe against a doorway and slips around the corner. Taking on a running crouch, he quickly disappears in the gardens surrounding the spaceport.

Spock and Ashe trade expressions of varying disbelief.

"When this is over, we _seriously_ need to recruit that boy," she tells him.

Spock raises an eyebrow noncommittally and tries to contain his frustration. He applauds their ally's initiative, but cannot approve of his impetuous approach. Very little time would have been lost engaging in a brief discussion of Eli's plan. Instead, he is forced to await a sign of success or evaluate the need for further action with very little data upon which to…

Eli reappears out of nowhere, using the transporter ball, and Spock very nearly shoots him in the face. They glare at each other, both coldly disapproving of the other's actions, then Eli appears to reconsider, glancing down at his stolen Romulan attire.

"At least I need not doubt my apparent authenticity."

" _This_ is your plan?"

"It is tactically sound," Eli says a little defensively, "and should suffice to gain all three of us access to the shuttle docking bay. From there, Lieutenant Ho can access the grid while we are en route to the _Enterprise_ itself." He studies the two of them for a moment. "The Lieutenant will not arouse suspicion, but the same cannot be said for a Vulcan."

" _You_ are a Vulcan."

"For our purposes, I am a Romulan."

Frowning, Spock takes the scarf from around his neck and proceeds to wind it around his head, concealing the points of his ears and eyebrows. He has the sneaking suspicion that Eli is enjoying the spectacle. Ashe's face is too perfect in its blankness when Spock lifts her into his arms.

"March!" Eli orders in perfectly inflected Romulan, and waves his stolen disruptor menacingly.

Spock carries Ashe out into the street while keeping his eyes downcast and his movements as non-threatening as possible. If their poorly contrived ruse is discovered, which is quite likely, his only consolation will be that Jim is not with them.

 


	41. chapter 7.2

Getting across town to the campus proves more difficult than anyone expected. Nero has deployed ground troops in greater numbers than Jim's ever seen, and they flit between buildings and claim the high ground with disarming swiftness. More than once, his team find themselves pinned down or bottled up, the air superheating with phaser fire.

The third time looks to be the last time. Gaila provides cover fire as McCoy darts out into the cross street to drag a civilian back into the lee of a building for treatment, but it’s not enough. The doctor goes down with a glancing strike to his shoulder, sprawled with his legs trapped beneath his save.

“Leonard!” she calls, letting loose with an unprecedented barrage while Jim curses and tries to find new vantages in an attempt to shield such a large area of open space.

Gaila moves to assist McCoy, but T'Loren holds her back. “Your skills are crucial to the next phase of our plan.”

“He's hurt!”

“Stay under cover. That is an order.”

“I don't recall you being my superior officer!"

"Gaila! Do as she says!" Jim doesn't wait for acknowledgement, slithering down the pile of rubble that is providing refuge and firing at the same time, taking out one Romulan and sending the other scurrying for cover.

He turns his momentum into a shoulder roll as he hits the ground, green energy bolts sizzling in his wake. He spares a quick glance for T'Loren as she moves to cover him, grits his teeth and makes a run for McCoy. There’s a buckled aircar door in his path, so he scoops it up and uses it as a makeshift shield. Romulan fire pops and clangs against it like golf balls at a driving range. He’s cursing up a storm under his breath as the metal heats in his hand, forcing him to drop it a full five steps away from the doctor and his would-be patient. He’s just wondering how the hell he’s going to drag two full grown people out of the street by himself when T'Loren arrives and Gaila uses the moment as an excuse to go on the offensive.

T'Loren slings McCoy over her shoulder effortlessly and loops her spare arm around the civilian's waist. Jim swings around behind her, laying down fire on the blind side. Gaila cartwheels her arm in an attempt to hurry them, calling out something about enemy reinforcements.

“Faster,” T'Loren suggests calmly, breaking into a run despite her heavy load.

Jim does his best to keep up and still maintain a decent spread of phaser fire. He’s running sideways across uneven terrain, stumbling here and there, very much aware that to lose his footing means T'Loren and McCoy lose their cover and the Romulans gain a stationary target. The hard slam of plascrete against his shoulder is as welcome as an embrace from an old friend.

“Anyone else hurt?” he yells over the continuing barrage.

T'Loren shakes her head in the negative and turns to inspect her burdens. McCoy has no new injuries but the woman isn’t so fortunate. There’s a smoking hole where the back of her head used to be and Jim turns away, jaw clenched.

Gaila winces in sympathy but wastes no time moving her aside to gain better access to McCoy. T'Loren takes a few seconds to appreciate the fact that Gaila has guided them into the mouth of a subway entrance. It’s a smart move; the tunnels providing easy access to Academy grounds if only you’re familiar with their twists and turns.

They finally manage to rouse McCoy who blinks up at them, disorientated and clutching the hypo bruise over his carotid. “Who taught you that technique, a chimpanzee?”

“You did, you ungrateful bastard,” Jim grins at him. “Now quit clowning around and tell me which dressing to use on your pitiful excuse for a flesh wound.”

“Huh,” says McCoy, twisting in an attempt to see the charred, seeping burn on his shoulder blade. “Combi-prep with a clear dressing should do the trick.”

Jim pulls the requested materials from his kit and teases McCoy’s shirt fabric out of the way. It’s an angry red and has to hurt like hell, but it appears low energy. Either the Romulan's weapon was almost out of charge or the hit had been exceptionally long range. “Way to go passing out on us,” Jim sighs, securing the dressing with an adhesive cover, “nothing but a grade two burn, you pussy.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you come crawling into my sickbay, you little…”

“Doctor, Commander,” T'Loren interrupts, “may I suggest we move deeper into the tunnels? I will provide cover fire.”

“Agreed.” Jim extends a hand to Bones and hauls him to his feet. "Bones, can you run? If they catch us before we reach an intersection it will be like shooting fish in a barrel."

McCoy slaps his hands away. "Quite fussing, will you? I can run a mile."

"Okay, then. Gaila and I will take point, you and T'Loren cover our six." Jim glances at his chrono and looks grim. "That little firefight has really slowed us down. Spock and the others should be at the Spaceport by now. We need to get access to the Cochrane Array as soon as possible or we may as well paint a big target on the side of whichever shuttle the others manage to commandeer."

"Get me to the Academy." Gaila bounces on the balls of her feet. "Just get me within network range, Jim."

  
-:-

  
"Nice accent," Ashe comments under her breath as they clear the first checkpoint.

Eli flicks her a quelling glance. "Thank you."

Spock keeps his head hung low, hiding half his face behind Ashe's shoulder. It is unlikely that any such low-ranking acolytes of Nero will recognize him, but given his experiences during the Battle for Aspera, he would rather not take the chance. As they enter the spaceport lobby, he is forced to acknowledge that it is far more likely someone else will reveal his identity. All around them, people sit under armed guard, hands on their heads, turning to look at the new arrivals. All it will take is one shout of his name, one person who recognizes him from the countless newscasts and press conferences he's endured over the years. He dares to look up only once, moments before Eli leads them into a gate lounge. It seems that every eye is trained on him, all of them knowing, all of them hoping. Desperate for deliverance, humanity holds its tongue and keeps his secret.

Naturally, that is when they are finally challenged by the Romulans.

Eli's casual greeting is met with crossed _teral'n_ , their blades glinting wickedly in the overhead lighting. The young Vulcan does an admirable job of looking angry and repeats his demand with more force, requesting that they stand aside. The bigger of the two Romulan guards stalks forwards, brandishing his _teral'n_ at Eli's throat, spitting out questions that Spock only understands in part. Access to boarding areas is denied; orders directly from Nero himself.

Spock feels Ashe tense in his arms and begins to calculate how many of the enemy he can eliminate during the journey from here to the nearest point of cover, and whether it will be enough. The odds he calculates spiral in around him, highlighting the reality of their situation, forcing him to rethink. He cannot find a solution that offers at least a _marginal_ chance of survival.

The Romulan takes another step closer, pushing into Eli's chest with the staff of his weapon, shrugging the youngster off as though he were nothing. Spock angles his body, taking one or two subtle steps to the side and consciously slowing his breathing. Their timing must be perfect. Eli catches his eye and blinks in acknowledgement. The slightest inclination of his head is the signal.

Spock tosses Ashe towards Eli before the youngster is even through disembowling the guard with his own weapon. Spock strikes the other guard in the face with the flat of his palm, feeling a satisfying crack of bone. He drives home his advantage as the first scream goes up from the mostly human crowd. Spock cannot help but grimace. He knows their reaction is instinctive, that they do not mean to compromise his efforts, but the noise draws more guards who promptly open fire with disruptors.

Eli is two steps ahead of him, Ashe slung over one shoulder, clearing a path to the closest shuttle dock. Spock has no choice but to dismiss them from his mind. Ashe has the codes and the ability to liberate the _Enterprise_ ; she must live long enough to accomplish that task or their entire revolution dies here. It is as though time slows down, his centering breath loud in his own ears as he gathers his balance and launches into an explosive offensive.

The Romulans momentarily check their forward momentum in the face of Spock's unexpected charge. It is not rational for any solitary being to act as he does, and Spock intends to make full use of their surprise. He drops three with his phaser to get close enough for hand-to-hand combat, where much of their firepower will be lost through fear of hitting each other. His world narrows to include only threats and solutions, his fists striking flesh with as much brute force as he can muster. Against Romulans he has no strength or speed advantage; he has only his training and his determination.

Years of physical conditioning have honed his reflexes and his body. At first they drop in quick succession, his fingers seeking out nerve clusters and striking tracheas. Gradually though, the sheer number of them begins to take its toll and he is reduced to fending off blows with his forearms, to landing punches and kicks wherever he can find an opening. Inevitably, his own defense develops flaws. The confrontation has lasted only minutes but the demand on his stamina is extreme. His heart is thundering in his side, his breath gasping between clenched teeth. Romulan fists start to hit home, splitting his lip and doubling him over. He lashes out viciously, claiming a reciprocal victory, but it is the beginning of the end and he knows it. He cannot spare a glance to see if Eli and Ashe have boarded a shuttle, but no power in the universe could suppress the regret that floods him.

He regrets not planning more thoroughly. He regrets not examining Nero's fixation with future tech a long time ago. Most of all, he regrets not sharing a bond with Jim.

Jim, who asked him for one.

Jim, who Spock will never see again ...

  
-:-

  
“It’s stuck!”

“Well un-stick it!” Jim stage whispers back at Gaila, who’s busy shoving ineffectually at a seldom used access hatch.

“You could help!”

Jim glances back down the way they came. Squinting into the darkness, he can just about make out two figures running towards them. Running can’t be good. Clearly, stealth is no longer a priority.

“Right,” he says, flicking his phaser to the highest setting. “Move aside.”

Gaila hurriedly complies, jamming both her hands over her ears as Jim immediately looses two rounds into the latch. The sound is deafening in the confined space and he winces.

She drops her hands and glares at him. “That’s you’re solution to everything, isn’t it? If it doesn’t work, shoot it!”

He gestures at the smoking door with the phaser. “It’s a ten ton plassteel hatch. What did you want me to do, _kick_ it open?”

“Boys,” she sighs, but it still takes all her body weight to shift it.

McCoy jogs to a halt, a little out of breath. “Subtle Jim, real subtle.”

“Well, clearly you and T’Loren are masters of evasion,” he snaps back.

“The Romulans saw us enter the tunnel,” Bones exclaims, eyebrows shooting up. “Didn’t it occur to you that they might, I don’t know, _follow_ us?”

“It occurred to me that we might lose them on the way.”

“Well,” Bones rolls his eyes, “it’s not your lucky day.”

Jim grins in the semi-darkness. “Day ain’t over yet.”

T’Loren appears silently, not even having broken a sweat from all the running. “The Romulans are approximately thirty seconds behind us.”

“Great,” Jim deadpans. “Through the door. Let’s go, people.”

They scramble through the small airlock-like inter chamber, having to bend double and squeeze in sideways one by one. When Jim steps through he bumps into Gaila's back and is about to demand why the hell she's just standing there when he straightens and sees the phaser pointed right between her eyes.

"Oh," he says instead.

  
-:-

  
Stars explode behind Spock's eyes and he falls to one knee. Logically, he knows the room cannot be spinning, but when he reopens his eyes, they tell him a different story. A foot connects with his cheekbone, sending him sprawling face-first across the polished floor. The crowd of Romulans stalk after him, confident and less hurried now that it's clear they are the victors. Spock takes a breath that is half a groan and forces himself back up to his knees. He stares at the floor, ears ringing, as drops of blood fall lazily from his face and splash onto the faux marble finish. His hands frame the random raindrop patterns, skin torn across his knuckles, the tiny criss-cross of scars reminding him of the reason his stamina is so poor. He coughs and tastes more blood, his abused lungs burning like coals in his chest.

A hand grips his hair, yanking his head back so they can look at him. He stares back defiantly, ignoring the new pain across his scalp in favor of concentrating on all his anger, all his desire for revenge. It is not a Vulcan thing to do, but it keeps the fear at bay. It is unreasonable that he should die now, when he finally has so much to live for.

The lead guard kneels down in front of him, the tattooed sneer on his face a thing of terrifying beauty. "Lord Nero does not need you alive, not anymore, and he will reward me for ending your miserable life."

Spock takes a deep breath through his nose and exhales through his mouth. He struggles for calm, for acceptance, for all the things a Vulcan ought to accomplish in the moments preceding his death. None of it will come. He feels the cold press of metal against his throat and notices the way his pulse leaps in response, so uncontrolled, so very human. Instinctively, his mind reaches out towards the tenuous thread of connection he shares with Jim, but it is not enough or Jim is too far away, and he his left grasping at nothingness, incomplete.

Spock feels the knife shift against his skin and his eyes slam closed, anticipating the hot splash of his own blood, wondering whether it will feel more like drowning or suffocating...

Then the world shifts around him.

He rematerializes aboard a starship, still on his knees, head thrown back. The Romulan, caught in the wide beam with him, jerks his head around just in time to see the face of the person who stabs him. Sarek drives the _lipau_ in deeper, angling the blade upwards so that it punctures both the Romulan's heart and a lung, sealing his fate. With a stunned expression on his face, the Romulan topples to the side, fingers fluttering around the hilt of the knife.

Spock watches as his father turns and regards him steadily. Not a trace of murder is visible on his face, not unless you look in his eyes, which burn with an almost incandescent rage. When Sarek crushes him against his chest in the first father-son hug of his adult life, it is then that Spock can feel the truly Vulcan fury, the _outrage_ that someone should dare to harm Spock.

Shaking like a leaf, Spock grips his father's shoulders, allowing himself a moment's amazement at being alive.

"Spock..."

"Father," he replies, forcing himself to push away, to regroup. "I must locate Lieutenant Ho and Eli. The importance of their mission cannot be underestimated."

Sarek's jaw clenches but he nods after a second, drawing Spock to his feet and steadying him surreptitiously as the transporter tech looks on. "We will assist you in any way we can."

"The Vulcan High Council condones your participation?" Spock asks, his voice almost unrecognizable with trauma and surprise.

Sarek shoots him an unspeakable look. "I do not care either way," he announces, striding down the steps of the transporter, robes billowing in his wake.

For the first time in a long time, Spock looks at his father and sees more than their shared history, sees the brilliant young diplomat who made himself an outcast by marrying a human woman...by marrying for love and then having a child that some would pity and others would revile.

Spock follows him down the dais and into the corridors of the _Tat'sar_. "Thank you, Father," he says, "for my life."

Sarek says nothing, but he is a diplomat, a brilliant one, so he reaches out and clasps his son's shoulder in acknowledgement, only letting the hand fall away when they draw near to the bridge where others might see and judge. The double doors slide open soundlessly and he finds Eli and Ashe waiting for him.

"Oh, thank god!" the Lieutenant exclaims, looking like she would most likely cause a scene by hugging him if only she had a means of transportation.

Eli, too, looks greatly relieved. The young Vulcan steps forward, hands clasped lightly behind his back. "We are awaiting the transmission from the Cochrane Array as ordered, sir."

"Any word from Commander Kirk or his team?" Spock replies, forcing the words past the damage in his throat.

"No," Eli shakes his head. "By my calculations, they should have arrived at the Academy."

"They may have encountered resistance," he speculates. "We can afford a brief interlude to allow them time to access the Array."

Captain Senekot rises from his command chair, turning to face them. "I will give you ten minutes, no longer, before I must remove my ship and my personnel."

Spock inclines his head, having expected no less. "Understood."

"This ship, our mission, cannot be compromised any further, not even in times of such great need."

Spock, who has worked aboard this ship and come to suspect a great deal about its true mission, nods again, holding Senekot's eye. "I ask only that which you can freely offer. Thank you for saving my life and those of my associates."

It may be the adrenaline still flooding his system, but Spock imagines he sees a slight softening in the Captain’s hostility towards him before he turns back to ship's business.

"Come," Sarek says into the pause. "Our sickbay is fully staffed."

Battered, bruised and in considerable pain, Spock acquiesces immediately. He can do nothing but wait at this point, anyway.

  
-:-

  
"Hey!" Jim snaps at the shaking cadet pointing a phaser at Gaila. "Friendlies!"

The young woman's hand falls away shakily. "I'm sorry," she stammers, her big blue eyes filling with tears. "It's just, we rigged scanners and the tunnels are full of Romulans."

He steps around Gaila, gently grasping the cadet's hand in both of his and helping her lower the weapon the rest of the way. "That's right, they are," he agrees. "But you can see we're not Romulans. Look at my uniform, Cadet. We're EPAS."

"Oh! EPAS!" she breathes in relief, tears welling over. "Are you here to rescue us, sir?"

He feels her steady as he continues to hold her hand. "Kind of," he grins apologetically. "We need access to the Cochrane Array and the transporters. Think you can help us with that?"

"Yes, sure," she nods, taking a deep breath. "Most of us are holed up in the shuttle bays, sir. It seemed like the logical choice; easily defensible and we have ships there capable of making orbit. There are a few of us out on patrols, making sure we've still got a perimeter and security is holding."

Jim looks her up and down. "They nominated you as a perimeter guard?"

Her spine straightens noticeably. "I volunteered, sir."

His lips quirk in approval. "What's your name, Cadet?"

"Rand, sir. Janice, Cadet, graduating class."

"Commander James Kirk," he replies, shaking her hand before finally releasing it.

"Yes, sir," she blushes. "I recognize you now."

"Janice, can you take my friend Gaila here..."

"Hello!" Gaila says cheerfully, "thanks for not shooting me."

"Can you take Gaila to the Array? I think I remember my way to the shuttle bay," Jim presses on, shooting his Ops Lieutenant an exasperated glance.

  
-:-

  
Three minutes later, Janice watches avidly as Lieutenant Gaila shimmies under the main Cochrane console, hydrospanner jammed between her teeth. It turns out the Orion is as gifted as she is beautiful, because not a second later, the Array shunts online, bypassing the usual security interface and warm up.

Janice steps back as Gaila rolls out from underneath, replacing her spanner with a pearly grin.

"What can I say?" she beams. "Computers just love me."

"What's going on?" Janice asks, curiosity bubbling over.

"Oh," says Gaila, her fingers flying over the touchscreen. "We're kind of taking over the military. Don't tell your Starfleet friends, they won't understand."

Janice takes a moment to digest this because it's tantamount to treason. At the very least, it's a military coup and she can reel off the long list of punishments associated with such a move. The thing is, the concept of a traitor doesn't jell with what she knows of James T. Kirk, hero of the Battle of Vulcan, saviour of Aspera, hero of the Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service.

"I like the President," says Janice, which is true and also her only real objection to EPAS running the show instead of F-Sec. She might be young and innocent, but you'd have to be stupid not to see how badly the war is going, and how little Starfleet are doing to counter it effectively.

Gaila shifts a new line of code into place with practiced ease. "Oh, we like Wescott," she says reassuringly. "We'll keep him."

"You're awfully confident."

Gaila hits send on her communications packet and a series of bleeps follows as the Academy computers begin transmission to the Cochrane Array. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asks. "The DivCO and the Captain are miracle workers."

"The Captain?"

"Spock," she supplies. "He's the new captain of the _Enterprise_ , didn't you know?"

Janice feels a rush of something she can't quantify. It's a little like a first kiss or a Valentine, but a lot more scary. "Can I come with you?"

Gaila tilts her head to the side, copper curls bouncing. "It's really, really dangerous. You could die," she points out discouragingly.

Janice steels herself and lifts her chin. "I could just as easily die here."

"I knew I liked you for a reason," Gaila beams. "Now, we should get the merry hell out of here, because Nero is about to blow this place sky high."

  
-:-

  
Jim sees Gaila and Cadet Rand running across the hanger bay just as he finishes his explanation to McCoy and T'Loren. Reunited, the five of them form a loose semi circle.

"Okay," Jim begins, then stares pointedly at Rand.

"She's with me," Gaila says supportively, slinging an arm around her.

"Uh, welcome?" says Jim. "File your transfer paperwork later; right now, we have to get these cadets into shuttles and those shuttles into the air. Spread out, all of you, and get these birds in the air. Gaila, how long until the signal?"

She glances at her chrono. "Fifty seconds."

"Now," Jim orders. "Move."

  
-:-

  
Fifty seconds later, the Earth's largest signal transmitter tells everyone within parsecs that Earth is under attack and is being evacuated. Spock watches from the _Tat'sar's_ sickbay as millions of small craft take to the planet's skies like a flock of migratory birds. Somewhere amongst them, camouflaged in their number, will be Jim and his team.

"Take a deep breath in," the Vulcan Healer urges, "now exhale."

Spock finally can.

  
-:-

  
"Gailaaaaa!" Jim protests from his seat behind the pilot's bulkhead.

"Sorry, but there's a crap load of Romulans out here, sir," she replies, deftly weaving between two exploding Academy shuttles and the Romulan cruiser responsible for that carnage.

"Just get us to Luna in one piece, will you?" Jim bitches, mostly to distract himself from the red-uniformed bodies that fly past them as they clear the explosion.

"No can do, sir," Gaila sounds entirely too chirpy for someone with a look of bloody determination on her face. "According to long range scanners and comm chatter, the dome is breached. Anyone not in an escape pod has been sealed in by the emergency decompression system. They're broadcasting a mayday."

Jim curses and unclips his seatbelt, pulls himself to his feet and uses the hand loops to make his unsteady way from the passenger section to the cockpit bulkhead.

McCoy makes a desperate grab for him on the way past. "Sit down before you give yourself a concussion!" he growls, as the shuttle leaps and bucks under their feet.

Jim fends him off, using his arms to lift himself over the centre console and into the copilot's seat. "Talk to me, Gaila."

"Our best option is to make straight for the _Enterprise_ ," she mutters, hands knuckle-white on the yoke. "There's simply no clear trajectory up there, but Luna is taking a concentrated pounding. Even if I manage to land us, we'd be lucky to be able to reach the transporters given the degree of damage to the biosphere. Airlocks will be closed all over the place."

"What about Chekov, Uhura, Hannity and the rest of them?"

"If they were clever, they got out with Pike or earlier."

"Do we even know if Pike got out?"

"No." She turns to glance at him. "But he had to know this was coming. If he stayed, it's because he has a reason."

Jim straps in and takes control of communications, navigation and shields, freeing Gaila to do all the flying. "Okay, let's get to the ship. I'll comm Scotty on the secure line; let him know we're coming."

In the rear of the shuttle, Janice Rand turns to McCoy and asks, "is it always like this?"

Leonard swallows heavily and nods, perspiration glistening on his brow. "Yeah, pretty much."

She takes in his death grip on the chair and his determinedly closed eyes. "Is it bad?"

"No worse than usual. I just _hate_ flying."

She pats him comfortingly on the knee. "What's the worst that could happen?"

McCoy groans. "You ask me that question and now I'm thinking about it!"

  
-:-

  
Spock beams directly to the bridge of the _Enterprise_. It gleams white around him, and for a moment the glinting reflections blind him to the exposed conduits and missing fixtures. Lieutenants Hannity and Scott look up as the transporter field fades away, their hands deeply embedded in the main propulsion console.

"We must get under way," Spock tells them. "Immediately."

Scotty shakes his head miserably. "No can do, Captain. We've got no power to main thrusters."

"Can you fix the drive?"

"There's nothing wrong with the bloody thing," he clarifies. "It's the actuators. One of the junctions must be faulting out, but there are hundreds of these between here and the engine room."

Spock's hands curl into fists at his sides. "How long?"

"Could be anywhere from three minutes to thirty, sir."

"Make it three."

Scotty sighs heavily and delves back inside the console. "I'll do what I can."

  
-:-

  
An Academy shuttle touches down in the _Enterprise's_ main hangar pitted with phaser burns and smoking hot to the touch. Techs and junior staff leap out of the way, their faces filled with consternation as the hatch pops and twenty Starfleet cadets pile out, followed by three EPAS personnel and a Vulcan.

“Okay,” Jim hollers, running up a ladder to attract attention, “everyone, get the hell off this boat or you’re coming with us whether you like it or not!”

A few people at the fringes scamper down the docking ramps to escape pods but the vast majority of techs, tradespeople and cadets remain fixed in place, staring up at him on the gantry.

Jim blinks. “One way trip, last stop before the firefight!” he tries again.

One or two more people scatter, tools abandoned in their haste to leave, but the vast majority remain. Jim estimates at least one hundred and eighty of them, clad in a mix of cadet red, officers uniforms, baggy tech coveralls and black undershirts that don’t give away their specialities.

“Are you guys _deaf?_ ” Jim demands, growing impatient.

A burly technician steps forward. “With all due respect, sir, are _you?_ ”

Jim gapes like a fish. “You haven’t said anything!”

The tech just folds his arms and plants his feet, glancing over his shoulder as the ripple of obstinacy spreads out from him like a pebble thrown into still water. They’re all staring up at Jim, actions speaking so much louder than words ever could. Jim feels his throat tighten and he clenches his jaw in response. These people, these brilliant fucking _people._

With the ease of long practice, he turns, frames the access ladder with his gloves and boots, and slides down to their level, sticking the landing neatly. There’s wariness and apprehension evident in every expression that greets him. Jim is an enlisted officer, a DivCO who’s used to giving orders, and what they’re doing is paramount to insubordination.

Jim approaches their self-nominated leader and extends his hand. “Jim Kirk, Divisional Commander, EPAS, _USS Enterprise_.”

“Senior Tech Charles W. Pittern,” the grease-stained man returns, engulfing Jim’s hand in the firm grip of his own. “Chief Installation and Refit Supervisor, _USS Enterprise_ , at your service, Commander.”

“Right then,” Jim releases his hand and sneaks a glance over his shoulder. “We have a skeleton command crew in place, a Chief of Engineering, Tactical, Ops and Communications. Science is vacant and so are many of the Lieutenant, Lieutenant Commander and Ensign positions in all fields.”

Pittern turns to the motley group and cups his hands around his mouth. “Ranking officers step forward, engineers and techs to my left, sciences to my right.” Questions begin as murmurs and quickly escalate into a confusing avalanche. Pittern raises and lowers his arms repeatedly, shushing them. “I don’t have time to sort you individually. You’re smart people or you wouldn’t be working on this boat. Think about your strengths, not just the scope of your qualifications. Go and find a vacant position in a field you’re _good_ at.”

“Seconded,” Jim affirms. “But right now, I need a small team of transporter and science people, heavy on the applied math and sensor relay expertise.”

Several science track officers step forward and a handful of techs. One blue-shirted Lieutenant glances at the techs and points them out to Jim. “Sir, Skia and White should take sensors, they installed the damn things. I haven’t even laid eyes on them yet.”

“Okay,” Jim agrees, but points at the blue shirt. “You, what’s your name?”

“Nathan van Looy, sir, Lieutenant, First Class.”

“van Looy, I like you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re the new head of our science department.”

van Looy’s eyes widen in disbelief. “There are people here with more expertise, sir, and I’ve never held a command position, so...”

“I need honesty and quick thinking,” Jim snaps. “I need someone who knows the talents of the officers on this ship and can help me put them where we need them, think you can handle that?”

van Looy smiles wryly. “Yes, sir. That I can do.”

“Okay then.”

Pittern herds the sensor techs and three or four other people towards Jim. “Navigation calibrator, logic board integration specialist, this girl is technically a comms person but she minored in astrophysics at college, and then you have Wardell.” Pittern’s weathered face breaks into a toothy grin. “Wardell is an all-round transporter genius, sir.”

“I’ll take all the genius I can get,” Jim grins, ushering them on towards the bridge. “Oh, and Pittern?” he calls, turning back momentarily.

“Aye, sir?”

“Not sure if this is legal or not, but as of now, you’re our Second Officer.”

The Senior Tech grins wider. “Pretty sure I have to graduate the Academy for that, sir.”

“There’s a regulation to cover it,” Jim smirks. “At least, I hope there is. Get to work, I need this ship in the air _yesterday._ ”

  
-:-

  
Two minutes later on the bridge, Spock receives the all clear from Scotty in Engineering. He doesn't question how the works were completed in such a small fraction of the estimated time, he just folds himself into the center seat and glances over at navigation. "Take us out, Lieutenant Uhura."

As the ship starts to inch forward under her own power, various people begin to take their stations. Hannity takes Ops, seated beside Chekov at navigation. Ashe has Tactical, and the weapons and sensor seats next to hers are filled by people in tech uniforms who flood out of the turbolift. More non-enlisted people appear on the bridge, prompting Spock to turn his chair.

Jim appears from amidst a motley array of uniforms, stepping forward just as Spock rises to meet him. "Looks like revolutions are popular today," he grins. "Meet the first _volunteer_ Constitution Class crew in history, sir." Then more softly, as he draws closer. "Is everything okay?"

Spock acknowledges his battered face and bloodstained uniform with the barest motion of one hand. "I estimate we have approximately eighteen point six minutes before the drill reaches the planet's core."

Jim studies him for a second longer, then nods. "I'll prep one of the new shuttles. I'll need a crew."

He turns to leave but Spock steps forward, halting him instantly. "Jim, the statistical likelihood that ..."

"It'll work, Spock," he replies in an urgent undertone, indicating the meld points on his face. "I _know_ it."

The tableau holds as the _Enterprise_ finally begins to pick up speed, the spacedock falling away to reveal the vicious dogfights and pinwheeling wreckage orbiting the Earth.

"Heading, Captain?" Chekov requests.

Spock hesitates, eyes locked with Jim's

"It'll work," Jim insists. "We've talked this through a thousand times."

"Captain, your orders?" Chekov insists a little apologetically.

Spock tears his eyes away and pivots, unable to look Jim in the eye and give the order. "The _Narada_ ," he says simply. "As close as you can, Mr. Chekov."

 


	42. chapter 7.3

Aboard the _Narada_ , a young Romulan woman and a very old Vulcan sit in a cell. The air is dank and metallic, the hull under their feet vibrating with destruction.

"He will come for me soon," she says, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

"Most likely."

"What should I do?"

The old Vulcan shifts painfully, his wounds have healed poorly, his bones knitted without rhyme or reason. He longs for the conviction to reassure her, but whether through wisdom or sheer exhaustion, he has only fatalism to offer.

"What you must, Arrhae," he whispers. "What you can."

-:-

"Systems check?"

"Green across the board," Uhura reports, busied with the controls of their brand new medevac shuttle. "I don't like this HUD, Jim. Why didn't we load one of the old shuttles?"

"Because they're old," he replies, "and slow, and broken, and..."

"Okay, okay," she capitulates, slowly throttling up the engines to a low pre-burn. "I just don't like taking an untried unit into the field."

"If it makes you feel any better, the salesman said a three year old could fly this bucket."

"No." She glares at him. "It does not make me _feel_ better."

He holds his hands up as though to fend her off. "I'm done trying to play matchmaker here."

There are footsteps on the port runner and a figure casts a shadow across the shuttle floor. T'Loren stands, fully suited, a visor tucked under one arm. "Commander Kirk, it would be my honor to serve as your Point One."

McCoy stops what he's doing and turns to look incredulously in Jim's direction. He stops short of actually saying what he's thinking, but the look on his face is worth a thousand words.

Jim studies his ex commanding officer for a moment, thinking back to the beginning of his career with EPAS, to the invasion of his cabin and the sorrow that had driven T'Loren's logic away. It would be simpler if he was still angry with her, but the thing is, he's achingly close to having a Vulcan bond of his own and that changes everything. The thought of losing such a connection, of feeling the moment where death tears Spock from his mind forever...yeah.

"Okay," he nods. "Take the starboard bench."

McCoy pushes to his feet, dressing packs in one hand and a Starfleet Security grade phaser in the other. "Jim, you can't be serious."

"But I am."

"Jim..."

"Bones, this is not a democracy!" he snaps. "T'Loren's a Vulcan and her people share a common ancestry with Romulans. Once we beam aboard the _Narada_ , that could prove invaluable in deciphering the ship's layout."

The doctor looks rebellious for a moment, then grits his teeth and turns back to his stores.

-:-

The _Enterprise_ makes good progress around the fringe of the impromptu battlefield. The wreckage of other Federation vessels provides a degree of cover. Between Chekov and a particularly gifted sensor technician by the name of Skia, the ship is slowly barrel-rolling her way towards her target. The trajectory that movement generates makes them blend in with the general chaos of the area, plus they're only using attitude thrusters to maneuver, having shut the impulse engines down once enough momentum was reached. It won't hide them from a focused scan, but for now, they're just one more partially incomplete ship spinning through space without power.

Spock looks up as someone approaches the center seat. "Yes?"

"I wish to accompany the away team," Eli tells him.

"You are not part of this crew."

The young Vulcan glances pointedly around the bridge to where techs are manning Lieutenant-grade stations and then quirks an eyebrow. "Is that relevant?"

Spock thinks back to his time aboard the _Tat'sar_ , to the way Eli was always hovering around the edges of matters above his pay grade. He realizes that there has never been a mention of Eli's rank or role, that his involvement is always just assumed. Spock studies him more closely, noting the tranquil expression, the aura of quiet competence.

"You have not been frank with me."

"It is not within my purview to be so," Eli apologizes.

Spock drops his voice, trusting to the industry on the bridge to mask his next question. "You are from Nero's universe?"

"I would answer you if I could," he says, and does appear genuinely apologetic.

"You _have_ passed through a space-time anomaly."

"I have."

"And the _Tat'sar_?"

"The ship, also," Eli agrees in an undertone. "That much is self evident with any tachyon sensor sweep."

"Your mission?" Spock demands, disconcerted as several pieces of the puzzle fall into place only to open up a myriad of lines of further enquiry.

"Compatible with yours, I assure you." Eli tilts his head slightly, hazel eyes gently seeking something in Spock's face. "We share a mutual ally, someone whom we both anticipate will be aboard the _Narada_."

"The Vulcan who calls himself Sarek," Spock agrees.

"And who is not your father," Eli clarifies.

"You have a plan?"

"Not I," Eli shakes his head. "Only he knows the way events ought to unfold."

Spock feels himself tense. This other self, this _him_ from another reality, shares a common history with Jim. The seeds of his counterpart's plan have appear to have been sown long ago, deep within Jim's childhood and possibly in a thousand other places behind the scenes. The responsibility of instigating such a course of action is staggering and, he thinks, the action somewhat arrogant. How much of their current reality has been shaped by Nero, and how much by his counterpart? Future knowledge is every bit as dangerous as future tech; that truth has never been more apparent.

Spock inwardly rebels against his counterpart's meddling ways. "I do not believe in destiny," he says slowly and clearly, making his position clear.

"Destiny has no part in this," Eli responds. "It is simply a fight for survival."

"And who weighs each life? Decides who shall live or die?"

"That is out of my hands," Eli says, illustrating the point by spreading his fingers as though releasing something. "I can only tell you that all our futures will be shaped by what happens here, and that I will do everything in my power to ensure that future is free from Nero's oppression."

Spock's turns away. He stares fixedly at the deck, both hands gripping the arms of his Captain's chair. It is within his power to facilitate his counterpart's plan or crush it, at least in part. He honestly does not know which is the more logical course of action; there are too many variables. Eventually, he chooses to trust the young Vulcan standing before him, the youth who ordered the beam-out that saved Spock's own life.

"Go," he tells Eli. "Permission granted."

The young Vulcan salutes him almost wryly and steps off the dais, on his way to catch the medevac crew before they slingshot out.

"Communications?"

"Aye, sir," Hannity replies promptly.

"Any contact with Admiral Pike?"

"Negative, sir. EPAS headquarters on Luna is still off comms. I read multiple civilian ships, several Starfleet vessels and random chatter in the area, but nothing on the secure frequency we were using."

"However, you are certain that the Admiral was successful in his escape from the compound?"

"As certain as I can be, sir. I didn't see him board the ship, but I saw it take off just before I beamed onto the _Enterprise_. He had Ahern and Riley with him. They were armed."

"Understood. Thank you Lieutenant."

Spock sits ramrod straight in his chair and stares out the main viewer as the stars wheel by. The bridge is a place of shadow and suggestion on emergency power, but every effort must be made towards avoiding detection until the last possible moment. Their shields are down, which is a calculated risk, one designed to get them as close as possible before their intent is given away. It maximizes the chances of the away team sabotaging the drill, so Spock grits his teeth and ignores every screeching clang against the hull, trusting in Ashe's approach vector and Chekov's navigational genius to avoid significant impacts. There are over two hundred crew complement aboard the vessel who unknowingly do the same. Spock feels the true weight of captaincy for the first time.

-:-

"Sir, wait! Commander Kirk!"

Jim unclips all but his main line and steps out onto the port runner. These new Echo Epsilon class medevac shuttles are really top of the line, with handholds in all the logical places and a wider extravehicular standing position for Points. He tests the flex by bouncing on the balls of his feet as Chief Pittern jogs laboriously over to shuttle EE-JC3.

"What is it?"

"If Doctor McCoy goes with you, we've got no CMO and no one to replace him with," he apologizes breathlessly, making Jim wonder just how far he'd run to deliver that message. "In fact, there are only a handful of medics aboard the ship and not one of them more senior than a Resident."

"What do you mean?" McCoy steps up, glaring. "This is a goddamn EPAS ship! Where the hell are all my staff?"

"With all due respect, Doctor, _Enterprise_ wasn't due to be commissioned until next week. The only medical staff you have on board during a refit are standard first-aiders, so that's what we've got."

"Oh, for the love of God," McCoy exclaims. "This shuttle needs a doctor." He jerks his head in Jim's direction. " _Trust_ me."

"Not as much as the ship does," Jim argues. "Besides, if we get hurt, _Enterprise_ is likely to be the closest and safest transporter option. If you stay here, you get to bitch me out almost as quickly."

McCoy glowers at him. "I don't like it, Jim."

"Neither do I, but there you go." He ushers Bones out of the shuttle by one shoulder and almost hands him to Pittern. "Do what you can to get those medics up to speed. If our mission succeeds, it's very likely we'll be the only functional EPAS ship mopping up this mess."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?" McCoy growls. "You concentrate on your job, which is staying alive, and let me do mine."

Pittern steps forward. "At least you won't be a gun down," he informs them. "You've got a replacement."

Jim turns to see Eli in a full Point suit, just buckling the neck clasp. "Commander, the Captain has given me permission to join your crew."

"Fine by me." Jim shrugs, thinking of the kid's badass moves the last time they encountered Romulans.

"I also have a senior first aid certification," Eli adds, turning to McCoy, "if that eases your concern?"

"I hope that serves you well when Jim ruptures his spleen, or decides to go EVA without a visor," McCoy snarls, pointing at Kirk. "Because he does that kind of thing now and again, mostly because he's a jackass."

"Thanks, Bones."

"No problem."

Pittern looks a little alarmed but recovers quickly. "I've done Jacee's ground inspection, no faults to report, Commander."

"JC?" Jim quirks an eyebrow.

"Shuttle EE-JC3. _Jacee,_ sir." Surprisingly, Pittern blushes a ruddy scarlet and confesses, "she's my niece, sir."

Jim grins then sobers. "Where is she now?"

"Los Angeles, with my sister."

He reaches out and claps Pittern on the shoulder because the big man looks like he might be about to lose it. "She'll be all right, you'll see. Nero's not going to get away with this bullshit."

"No, sir, because I'm not going to let him."

"Me neither."

"Okay, then."

"Okay," Jim echoes.

The Chief steps back in line with a cranky-looking McCoy and gestures towards the spinning stars outside. "We've got your six, Commander."

"I don't doubt it."

Jim steps back inside and straps in. Truth is, he'd be a lot more comfortable if they had a medic on board, but it's mostly habit; they're not going to have time to stop if one of them gets hurt.

"Uhura, take us out."

"Aye, sir." She opens a channel to the bridge. "Ops, this is Echo Epsilon Jay Cee Three, requesting permission to launch."

 _Copy that EE-JC3,_ comes Gaila's cheerful voice. _Your flight plan has multiple bogies and several civvie Alice in Wonderlands._

"Great," Jim groans from the back. The last thing they need is private ships with no apparent destination in the mix.

 _You might want to drop the hammer, Uhura, clear the immediate vicinity as fast as you can. It looks like clear skies after six clicks. Keep in mind you'll have no leaf rakers, it's just you out there._

"Thanks Gaila, copy that." Uhura turns to formally pass on the permission from Ops but Jim gestures at the comm.

"Give them our handle," he suggests. "It'll do Pittern good and it's less of a mouthful on the air."

Uhura gives him a lopsided smile. "You softie. Come in Ops?"

 _This is Gaila._

"Designate shuttle 'Jacee,' copy?"

 _Copy that, Echo Epsilon Jay Cee Three. Jacee it is._

"Now let's hope Pittern's niece is flattered and not insulted," Uhura mutters under her breath. The acceleration of the slingshot presses them all into the nicely cushioned upholstery. As they clear the hull, she glances at the multicoloured instrumentation and boxy front viewscreen. "Because this is one fucking _ugly_ ship," she concludes.

-:-

Aboard the _Narada_ , the cell door is thrown open, hitting the wall with a deep, metallic clang. Five Romulan guards file in. It's a lot for an old, infirm Vulcan and a slim Romulan woman, but Nero has learned the hard way not to underestimate Spock Prime.

"You will come with us."

Both move to stand, but the guard gestures at Prime. "Not you," he hisses. "Just her."

Arrhae shoots Prime a pleading glance. "I cannot do this!"

"You can," he urges. "You must."

"I am not strong enough," she weeps, shrinking back from the guards who grip her upper arms. "You are wrong."

Prime rises stiffly to his feet, sensing the clicks and pops throughout his body as misaligned bones grate against one another. "You will not _be_ alone, Arrhae."

She lifts her tear-streaked face and her bottom lip trembles. "I have your word?"

Prime inclines his head in confirmation and the guards drag her away.

Even now, at the very periphery of his telepathic sense, he feels a familiar presence. He hardly feels it as the last guard slams the butt of a disruptor against his temple. Like a spider spinning her web, Prime has worked for over twenty years for this moment. He lets his eyes fall closed, rests in the pure exhaustion of fulfilment. Minutes only, until the universe is either lost or saved.

Again.

-:-

The only talking going on in the medevac shuttle is between Uhura and the _Enterprise_. The two ships converse in short, staccato sentences, sometimes, but not always, remembering to curse in dead air. The mass evacuation from Earth _is_ providing cover, but flying through that many ships is tantamount to a herd of cattle wandering onto a busy highway at peak hour; it's all Uhura can do to avoid hitting them.

By rights, Nero should have spotted them a lot sooner, going against traffic the way they are, but Jim isn't about to cry about some good luck for a change. He steps out onto the port runner, leaning into his harness, and takes the anti-ship phaser grips in both hands. He can't help the grin that splits his face as he lines up the drill cable in his sights. This is no ordinary medevac shuttle.

Green cluster bombs start going off around them, concussion waves buffeting him through his suit, but it's too late for the _Narada_. Jim looses a barrage of phaser fire into the cable and it snaps like a rubber band, the lower end spiralling like an unattended hose as the whole drill goes crashing to earth.

"Jim!" Uhura shouts urgently. "Incoming!"

He hurriedly steps back through the forcefield, spooling in his safety line on the way. Of course, up until that little maneuver, they were a medevac shuttle, a rescue vehicle. Now, Jacee is a legitimate military target and Nero chooses to let them know all about it. A dozen alarms go off around the cabin as the density of cluster bombs in their area increases. Phaser fire soon follows, darting through the black and leaving afterimages on Jim's retina.

"Orders?" Uhura requests tightly, eyes glued firmly to her HUD.

"Turn us into it," Jim commands.

"Sir?"

"You heard me; take us in."

Uhura flips them in a tight loop and then doubles back on their previous trajectory, heading straight for the _Narada_. "Plan, sir?"

"We need to get aboard that ship."

Eli breaks into the conversation. "Achieving a stable transporter lock in these conditions is highly unlikely."

"Uhura, scan the _Narada_ and give me the location of any surface areas with weaker structural integrity."

"Aye, sir."

Jim pulls out his PADD, syncing it with the network and flipping through Uhura's scans as they become available. He zeroes in on an external access port that's linked to a main pedestrian thoroughfare. "There," he says, highlighting it and flipping it back to the pilot's console. "Take is in through there."

"Wrong airlock configuration," she informs him. "We can't go in on foot."

"So we take the shuttle in," Jim says, calm as you like.

Uhura turns to stare at him from the pilot's seat. She doesn't gape or flail or any of the things she'd be perfectly entitled to do. "That's insane," she says, instead, flipping forward again as debris clangs against the hull.

Jim ducks his head in acknowledgement. "Maybe, but I don't see any alternative."

"We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because, Jim," she says, jaw clenched, "it's a walkway and we're a space ship."

T'Loren chooses that moment to lean forward in her Point Harness. "I second the DivCO's assessment of the situation. We have insufficient time to make the journey on foot and no other logical solution presents itself."

"You call flying a ship inside another ship _logical?_ " Uhura's voice has gained an octave in disbelief.

"In this instance," T'Loren turns her attention to Jim, as though he is the one asking. "Yes, I do. Given the amount of time it has taken us to neutralize the drill, I estimate that Nero may almost have breached the planet's core. He may well decide to launch the Black Hole Device at suboptimal depth. The resulting singularity may well be less stable, but the Earth will nevertheless be destroyed."

Jim studies his former Point Two intently, blue eyes cold and calculating. "It will mean a crash landing deep within the internal structural bulkheads,. We do that, and we have no way back."

T'Loren inclines her head in acceptance. "Then we must formulate an alternative extraction plan."

"We could die," Jim presses.

"Thank you! Finally!" Uhura shouts at the ceiling.

T'Loren graces Jim with a smile so brief he fears he might have imagined it. "One of the fundamental truths of being alive," she acknowledges. "If you had not faced that fact, all of you," she turns to include Uhura and Eli, "then you would not be on this shuttle. If I die today, then I do so knowing my actions had purpose and that purpose was honorable."

"The good of the many," Jim says quietly.

"For those left behind," T'Loren responds, and it fits somehow.

"Damn it," Uhura sighs, embracing the insanity. "Fine!"

Throughout the main body of the shuttle, everyone checks their clip in points and pulls on the overhead tabs to deploy crash webbing. Eli takes the medic’s position, a little jump seat that folds out of the wall. He still has a four point safety harness, but it’s not as protected as the Point positions, so Jim tosses him a spare visor

The kid catches it deftly and puts it on without instruction. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Jim turns to T’Loren as Uhura guns it. “We really don’t have much of an idea where Nero stores the Red Matter, but I’m betting it has to be towards the center of the ship. You don’t want that shit near your hull where enemy fire might breach shields.”

“Logical,” she agrees. “Once we are within those shields, our tricorders should be able to pick up the energy signature of the containment field.”

“Let’s just hope we can distinguish it from all the future tech he’s been collecting.”

“I may be able to assist,” Eli contributes.

Jim turns to size him up again. “Should I even ask?”

The kid stares back, the picture of innocence. “Not if you expect an answer.”

“The backsass on this ship is _unbelievable_ ,” Jim grins, turning frontwards and wrapping the crash webbing firmly over his body. “Uhura, make sure you’ve got green lights across your impact board.”

She makes a harried noise but complies, sparing one hand for those protocols while the other guides them unerringly through the flood of phaser fire being directed at them. As they shoot between two cluster bombs whilst avoiding multiple pieces of wreckage, Jim is forced to re-acknowledge that Uhura really is an outstanding pilot.

They have no choice but to straighten their vector on the final approach, so the forward shields take a pounding, flaring and sparking as they overload and dissipate the energy along the lateral shields. Jim can hear the generator buffers redlining behind the engine bulkhead just as Uhura grits her teeth and drives them right through the chosen access hatch.

The dark metal disintegrates under the shuttle’s momentum, barely checking their progress. The tunnel within is only handspans wider than the diameter of their ship, but somehow Uhura holds it nearly all the way to the center of the ship, blowing out internal forcefields on the way in bright starbursts of protesting energy. Inevitably, the inner workings of the _Narada_ close in on them and a conduit clips the starboard runner, throwing them sideways into the left hand wall, which turns into a rapid-fire game of shuttle ping pong until Uhura screams at them to brace and they hit the dead end with almost half their initial velocity still intact.

Amazingly, Jim does not lose consciousness. His eyes swim with tears and his bruised diaphragm protests every gasping breath he takes, but he can begin unstrapping himself immediately. The sound of at least two other people doing the same reaches him over the ringing in his ears and the hiss of burst coolant pipes.

“Who’s still with us?” he coughs, pushing unsteadily upright to test his battered legs.

“Eli and T’Loren,” the young Vulcan replies. “I believe Lieutenant Uhura may be compromised.”

Jim makes unsteady progress from his seat to the cockpit, fumbling with his visor until he finds the headlamp and switches it on. Uhura lies face first across her console, but the lack of impact injury means the internal forcefields _did_ engage. He flips open his tricorder and scans for spinal insults, and, finding none, he takes her gently by the shoulder and gives her a shake.

“Uhura, come on, wake up.”

She doesn’t stir, so he loads a cap of netinaline into his hypo and jabs her in the neck, just above her flight suit. Almost immediately, her eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide as the drug impacts her body systemically.

With Jim’s help she peels herself off the dash, leaning back in the seat to catch her breath and give herself a once over. “I’m good,” she nods. “Nothing broken.”

“Let me give you a hand.” Jim steps back and offers his support as she wriggles and tugs herself out of the shattered cockpit, broken transparent aluminium crunching under their boots. The Vulcans are waiting, headlamps pointed at the ground to light a path out of the wreckage.

Uhura pats the buckled doorway with one gloved hand. “Butt ugly, but tough as hell. Jim, I like these shuttles.”

“Good to know,” he grins, flicking the safety off his phaser. “Do we have a heading on the Red Matter?”

Eli glances down at his tricorder, casting around from side to side for a moment until he fixes on a direction. “Approximately point two clicks, directly ahead.”

“Okay, let’s move. It’s a safe bet the locals have noticed we crashed a ship _in_ their ship.”

  
-:-

  
On the bridge of the _Enterprise_ there is a moment of collective indrawn breath when shuttle EE-JC3 appears to impact against the overwhelming mass of the _Narada_. A split second later, the lack of a fireball proves they've pierced the outer hull and not become part of it, but everyone still waits for Technician Skia's confirmation, only relaxing when it comes.

Spock glances down to the slight indentations he's left in the arms of his chair. When he is reunited with Jim, there will be an apparently long overdue discussion about the merits of self-preservation. He opens his mouth to issue a new heading when the bridge lighting falters and extinguishes, only to snap back on with the sunburned glow of emergency systems.

"Report!"

Before anyone has a chance to reply, Nero's face appears in the main viewer. His teeth are bared in a mix of viciousness and victory. "Spock!" he growls. "Did you truly think you could destroy me so easily? Your arrogance is astounding."

Slowly, Spock pushes to his feet, eyes glued to his enemy's face. "The drill is destroyed. You will not be able to deliver the Red Matter and Earth will not surrender."

Nero throws his head back and laughs. "Your naivete is touching, truly," he smirks. "But I already have what I came for," the smile deepens to a sneer, "and you delivered him into my hands!"

Spock's eyes narrow as he considers the possibilities. Surely, Nero cannot mean ...

"I will take back what is mine," Nero spits, "I will rip it from his brain and leave him broken as you left me, so long ago." The Romulan warlord sees Spock's confusion and laughs heartily, his bald head thrown back in decadent enjoyment. "I could never have imagined this moment would be so _satisfying!_ " he grins, sharp teeth flashing. "Today I achieve my ultimate end, but also inflict upon you a fraction of the suffering you heaped upon me."

"The suffering _you_ have caused knows no bounds," Spock counters, steeling himself against the cold dread in the pit of his stomach. "Millions of innocent lives ..."

"But which do you _really_ care about?" Nero bellows over him. "The anonymous masses, or one ... single ... _special_ life?" The Romulan's dark eyes are crazy with glee, his enjoyment palpable. "How will you _feel_ when I destroy James Kirk, _Captain_ Spock?" he demands, zealotry oozing from his every pore. "Will your balance sheet tally? Will it be _logical?_ What will your prized Vulcan heritage offer you then?"

"Captain!" Skia calls. "Sensors detect increasing gravitic anomalies in the area!"

"Arm proton torpedoes," Spock commands, sick with the knowledge that he may have to fire upon the _Narada_ while the away team is still inside. No matter that in doing so, he will destroy his own future, the choice is no choice at all.

Nero leans in, grinning wolfishly. "Before I kill him, I will tell your James Kirk how little you value his life, after all."

"There is an energy build up at the heart of the ship!" Skia says urgently. "Captain, it matches the signature of the black hole device."

"Target weapons and propulsion," Spock tells Ashe. Turning back to Nero he makes one final offer. "Surrender now, and your life will be spared."

The Romulan's grin grows wider. "I think not." He leans out of visual and barks off a few harsh commands in Romulan. "Destroying you will bring me too much pleasure."

Romulan cluster bombs cascade towards them, glinting evilly in the blackness.

"Evasive maneuvres!" Spock commands, reclaiming his chair.

"Captain, our shields!"

For a split second after Ashe's cry, Spock wonders how he could have forgotten something so essential, but no, he specifically remembers raising them after the away team was launched.

Ashe's face is pale as she turns to him. "They've been remotely disabled!"

On the main viewer, Nero leans forward eagerly, his lips moist with the anticipation of their destruction. Spock does not have time to wonder who betrayed them; it could have been anyone from the lowliest design clerk to the President's own staff. Jim was right; information is dangerous and secrets always poorly kept. Deadly green light descends upon them and Spock does the only thing he can do.

"All hands, brace for impact."

The view from space is one of spectacular collision. Each cluster bomb pierces the hull like a hot knife through butter, dissipating energy with spectacular fireworks before punching through the lower decks surrounded by a hail of debris and bodies. Escaped atmosphere goes up in a flash and a shriek. The fireballs spread across the nacelles, cascading past the shuttle bay to lick at the coldness of space like a live animal, still hungry.

"Tactical, report!" Spock bellows over the sparking, venting conduits.

"Multiple hits, shields still zero percent, internal bulkheads and life support holding." Ashe's voice is tense but calm, her hands flying over the instrumentation. "We can't take another hit like that."

"Recommendations?"

She turns to him. "End this bastard. Now."

  
-:-

  
"Jim!"

He wheels and fires instinctively, seeing the Romulan's face in the phaser flare, uncomfortably close before he drops. Jim turns back to Uhura and nods. "Thanks."

"The Red Matter is located through that door." Eli gestures up ahead, eyes glued to his tricorder. "Multiple lifesigns present, however the tachyon interference does not permit an accurate estimation of numbers."

Jim draws his other phaser and flips his visor down. He doesn't need the air but it beats getting punched in the face. "Doesn't matter; there's going to be a shitload of them. Everyone, remember the Red Matter is highly unstable. Do _not_ shoot it." He glares at them. "Seriously."

"Exactly how are we going to get it off the _Narada?_ " Uhura presses. "This was all supposed to happen way before Nero drilled a great big hole in the eastern seaboard. We haven't planned for this."

"The same tachyon interference that prevents scanning also inhibits transporter usage," T'Loren reminds them.

Jim shakes his head, overcome by a sudden sense of deja vu. "We just need the triggers. Without those capsules, there's no way for Nero to deliver the Red Matter without turning himself into a singularity."

"How do we know they're stored in the same area?" Uhura asks reasonably. "It's a big ship."

Images flash before Jim's eyes and he shakes his head to clear it. "I've just got a feeling."

Uhura and T'Loren look unimpressed, but Eli ... Eli looks like he's waiting for something.

"I know that sounds crazy, but ..." Jim falters. Hot agony laces through his skull. He falls to his knees, clutching his head, both phasers clattering to the deck. His brain feels like it's expanding exponentially and his fingertips ache against the visor, proof that he is not experiencing explosive decompression, despite appearances. "What's _happening?_ " he demands hoarsely.

Eli swiftly gets down on one knee, taking Jim's visor between his hands and pulling it off roughly. Hazel eyes stare intently from below slanted brows as the youngster arranges the fingers of his right hand against the meld points.

Jim tries to shrug him off, but Eli steadies him, replacing his hot fingertips carefully. "Please," he says softly. "Trust me."

Suffocating under an avalanche within his own mind, Jim nods frantically. As Eli draws him into the meld, an immediate sense of order is imposed upon everything. The information Prime implanted in his subconscious obediently forms an rational sequence of events, played out from beginning to end in all its revelatory glory. Eli's mindscape is closed to him, a one-way communication only. Still, Jim has a sense of benevolence and another emotion which Eli keeps firmly under wraps.

Jim comes back to himself as the meld ends. The two stare at each other, unblinking, until Jim grabs hold of Uhura's hand and pulls himself upright. He knows future knowledge is dangerous, he understands the paradox conundrum and the superstring theory of multiverse existence, but _still ..._

"Why the _fuck_ can't you people just use _words?_ "

“Jim?” Uhura enquires, her eyes large with worry.

“New plan,” he announces with a cocky grin. “We don’t have to destroy Nero.”

“We don’t?”

“Nope.” He retrieves his phasers and holsters them. “With a little help, he’s going to do that himself.”

 

 


	43. chapter 7.4

The planet Earth spins idly, a blue-green globe against the inky blackness of space. The sun sets the atmosphere ablaze with light and heat, the radiation muted by distance, transformed into a life-sustaining glow. So it has been for millennia. Now, with a gaping wound struck to her heart, the Earth stands on a precipice, and humanity with her. Ships flit here and there like fragile moths, circling protectively or avariciously in the void, blinking out of existence one by one to form wreckage. Burnt, twisted and cold, the pieces then aggregate through gravity to form abstract little planetoids; a graveyard testimony to the vast underestimation of Nero's planned revenge.

Above this orbit sits the _Narada_ , spitting out deadly green light at any passing target, but reserving a special kind of hell for the _Enterprise._ Dwarfed by the sheer mass of the Romulan vessel, outgunned and stripped of her defences, the outcome seems inevitable.

Aboard the enemy ship, Uhura steps forward and places a warning hand on Jim's arm. "This is insane, even for you."

"I'm going to need your decryption abilities," he insists. "I don't do Romulan text all that well."

"Jim..."

"Uhura," he counters sharply, blue eyes deadly serious as he looks up from the lock he's picking. "That's not how this is going to work."

"The Lieutenant has a valid point," T'Loren states calmly. "Proceeding unarmed into the most sensitive areas of Nero's ship seems unwise."

"That's why you two aren't going," Jim says without looking up from the circuitry. "I need you to hold this corridor. Tricorder says there's a transporter bay about twenty meters behind us. It's a dead end defensible position and our best hope of getting off this ship in one piece. Eli and I will disable the black hole device, tag the Red Matter for beaming and deal with Nero."

"I fail to see how you will accomplish those goals unassisted," T'Loren offers blankly.

"I'm just," Jim gives two wires a twist, " _that_ goddamn," he touches them to a bridging circuit and the door releases with a hiss, "awesome," he finishes, looking up with a grin. He catches Uhura's anxious expression and gets to his feet, dusting off his knees from force of habit. "This is not up for discussion. Those are my orders, now fall back and secure our exit."

Still looking rebellious, Uhura snaps off a salute. "Aye, Commander."

T'Loren just holds his eye for a second and then nods.

"I'm giving you guys the easy job," he smirks, "so those transporters better be working by the time I get back."

With that, he slaps Eli on the back and ducks carefully through the jimmied maintenance hatch, hands already raised in surrender. When Eli follows, T'Loren is quick to shut the door, carefully disengaging the hotwired circuit so that it cannot be reopened from the other side. She looks up to find Uhura cradling her phaser rifle and staring at the hatch, distress plain on her face.

"Let us hope Kirk's plan is successful," T'Loren offers, checking her own weapon.

" _What_ goddamn plan?" Uhura sighs, running a gloved hand down her face. "Spock is going to _kill_ me," she adds.

  
-:-

  
Jim was feeling good about his plan right up until now. Well, if not good about it, then at the very least _reasonably_ confident they'd survive. Then the ridiculous number of Romulan guards have to throw them to their knees in front of a raised dais and Eli gives him a look as if to say, 'this was not your best idea.' When a booted foot emerges from the shadows engulfing the platform and turns the throne to reveal Nero in all his manic, threatening glory...yeah, Jim is kind of forced to agree with Eli's assessment of the situation.

"Hello, Jim," Nero says conversationally. "We haven't met before, but I'm Nero."

"Uh, yeah." He looks to Eli for support and gets nothing. "I know."

The Romulan licks his teeth and smiles, relaxing against the command chair's tall frame. "Of course you do. Never forget the man who murders your family, that's my motto." He ignores Jim's flinch and waves a hand airily. "We have that in common, you and I."

"What?" Jim narrows his eyes in mock-confusion. "You want to bond over our shitty childhoods, is that it?"

"Well..." Nero pauses to consider this idea, "it _does_ interfere with my plan to kill you slowly and by increments."

"Yeah, I might have to hold that one against you."

"Understandable," Nero nods, his gaze flicking to Jim's companion. "Who is this you've brought with you? One of Spock's loyal followers? A friend?"

Eli lifts his chin slightly. "A scientist," he answers. "A colleague."

"A Vulcan," Nero sneers, scars bunching along his cheek and jaw as he does so. He turns back to Jim. "What terrible company you keep, James Kirk. I may have to find you guilty by association."

"Guilty of what, exactly?" Jim asks, licking his lips.

"Genocide."

"Oh, that," Jim rolls his eyes. "Still rambling on about that, are you? I've got news for you: that happened in another universe. You might not have noticed, but Romulus still very much exists in this universe, so it doesn't make a lot of sense to go around punishing innocent people for something that never happened."

"It happened!" Nero roars. "I saw it happen! Don't tell me it didn't happen!" Spittle flies from his lips as he leans forward in the chair, teeth bared. "In this reality, in mine, the same chain of events will lead to the same result. And you," his eyes narrow, "you stand before me as a willing associate of the one who lets it come to pass."

Jim spreads his hands placatingly and starts to smile. "Seriously, this is where you get confused."

"Silence!" Nero's shout echoes off the metal walls, filling the dank hall with refracted syllables. "I did not bring you here to debate history or dictate to me the course of the future. You have something of mine, something that doesn't belong to you, and I will have it back."

Jim shifts his eyes to Nero's outstretched, grasping hand and then back up to his slitted eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Momentary fury washes over his scarred face, but then Nero throws his head back and laughs. He laughs long and hard, teeth bared in a grimace as he shakes his head at the floor. "Even now, my enemy taunts me." He snorts and then his head snaps up, eyes alighting on the closest guard. "Change of plan; bring me Spock as well."

The guard nods and runs for the closest exit. Jim takes the opportunity to study the interior of the ship. What he sees only confirms the information Prime dumped into his brain during the mindmeld. For all Nero's obsession with future tech, the _Narada_ is almost archaic, even by twenty-third century standards. None of the guards carry comm units, and there is no evidence of technological advancement beyond the level one would expect concurrent with Nero's native time period. Starfleet, F-Sec and EPAS have latched onto every last scrap of future tech that fell through the rifts. Small advancements, most of them, but there had been no hesitation within the Federation about implementing them. When faced with a clear and present threat, it makes sense to use every weapon in your arsenal.

Nero hasn't.

Jim allows himself an inward smile. Spock's counterpart is correct; they have leverage.

The relief lasts only until the moment Prime himself is dragged into the room. The guards also escort a woman, but Jim hardly notices. A deep abiding sadness washes over him at the sight of his former mentor and ally. Prime is bent and broken, his lean Vulcan frame wasted by starvation to almost skeletal proportions. It makes his angular face seem incongruously large and hides his eyes in shadow. His hair, once salt and pepper grey, is now completely white with trauma. Jim knows in his gut that even if Prime survives this, the ordeal will have taken years off his life.

Still, the tough old bastard manages a nod in his direction. "Jim," he rasps. "A pleasure to see you again, old friend. I see you got my message."

He takes a firm hold on his emotions and shrugs. "You're fucking cryptic, you know that?"

"My apologies."

"Also, that headache was _unbelievable_..."

"Speak again without my permission and I will kill him," Nero says, directing the comment to Jim. "He lives now only because I wish it so."

Jim raises a hand for permission to speak. "And why _is_ that? What do you want with him?"

"First, he will give me back my wife. Then, he will be allowed to watch you die."

Jim glances at the young Romulan woman flanked by guards and more of the mindmeld puzzle pieces click into place. He knows her face, her name, even though he's never seen her before. "Forgive me, but that doesn't sound like much of an incentive."

Nero's hands flex around the arms of his chair and Jim can tell he's holding back from violence by the narrowest of margins. "Being the carrier of my wife's _katra_ , I cannot harm you or risk harming her," he whispers furiously. "The same will not be true when this is done."

"Promises, promises," Jim sighs, knowing he's skirting the edge of a very dangerous precipice, but filled with the knowledge that Nero must invest as much emotion as possible in this situation for Prime's plan to work.

"You will do it _now_ ," Nero says menacingly to Prime. "Or I destroy the Earth."

Involuntarily, Prime, Kirk and Eli all glance at the globulus sphere of Red Matter that sits imprisoned behind the containment field in the center of the room. Beside it, neatly stacked in cages, are the delivery devices. Within each sits a scarlet mote suspended in an inert gel, ready to suck the Earth inside out at Nero's whim.

Jim steels himself for the performance of his life, because if Nero doesn't buy this, they're all dead. A guard lifts him to his feet by the scruff of his neck, throwing him towards Prime and the Romulan woman so hard that he stumbles. Drawing closer to her, Jim can see the fear in her eyes, the way her hands flutter at her sides like the wings of a trapped bird.

"Don't worry," he tells her, managing a fairly convincing smile. "It's going to be okay."

"This is not the way to conduct a _fal-tor-pan_ ," Prime grates out, his sweeping brows drawn inwards into a frown. "It takes days of meditation."

"And I have given you _weeks_ with her, even though the thought of it made me sick." Nero swallows heavily. "You have had ample time to prepare her mind, Spock, and I will not delay my hour of victory a moment longer."

Spock hangs his head, apparently resolved to the situation. On the surface he looks broken in more ways than one, but as Jim draws close enough to touch, he can see the fierce determination in those dark eyes. For an instant a more familiar, younger face is overlaid and he feels a moment's kinship with this Spock. No matter that he meddled in Jim's life for his own ends, that interference was once the only point of joy in an otherwise bleak existence. Does Jim trust this Spock unconditionally? Not really, no. Does he trust him here, now, in this moment? Probably.

"Jim, Arrhae," Prime says softly. "I will need your minds."

"No," the Romulan woman shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I am my own person! I have my own mind! I do not _want_ to become her!"

The guards grip her as gently as they can and hold her still. When Prime places his hand on her face and Jim's, seeking the meld points with broken fingers, he pauses at the last moment. "I am sorry," he says softly. "I never wished for any of you to share my burden."

"Enough!" Nero snaps. "Do it! Give her back to me!"

Prime offers them the tiniest quirk of his mouth in solidarity, then the mask slams back down and he intones the words that Jim longs to hear from a different Spock. "My mind to your mind..."

  
-:-

  
The bridge of the starship _Enterprise_ is rocked by the largest explosion yet. Spock is thrown from his captain's chair and lands on his knees, hands flying out to catch himself before his face impacts on the side of the navigation console. Screams erupt from his right and he pushes to his feet. One of the systems boards is on fire, the tech manning it engulfed in flames. His EPAS training kicks in and he wraps his body around hers, throwing them both to the floor to smother it. The hiss of a fire extinguisher follows a handful of seconds later and he approves of Hannity's quick thinking even as the compound itself attacks the broken skin on his hands and face, burning with intense cold.

The burned tech is already shaking with reaction, her teeth chattering together. Spock leans over and presses the nearest intercom button. "Medical team to the bridge." The acknowledgement follows seconds later and he releases the toggle.

Out of nowhere, a standard first aid kit is produced and Hannity bats his hands away. "I've got this, Captain. I'm on it."

Spock nods, relinquishing his duty of care for his duty to the ship. "All stations, report!"

A stream of information pours in from all directions, the crew not being trained enough to respond in order of priority. Spock's eidetic memory allows him to remember every word, even those spoken over each other, and he takes barely thirty seconds to process the implications. Coldly furious with the situation, he resumes his seat. His ship is disintegrating around him, his crew still fighting even though it seems Spock can do nothing to protect them. Well, no more. The situation calls for unorthodox methods.

"Captain Spock to Mr. Scott," he says, bringing his mouth closer to the comm, knowing that all systems are becoming unreliable.

 _Scott here_

"Are our phasers fully functional?"

 _Aye, sir. It's only the shields that are affected, but I'm working on it._

"Channel all auxiliary power to phaser banks," he commands.

 _Aye, sir_

Silently, Spock is grateful for the fact his Chief Engineer doesn't waste time with questions or arguments. Now is not the time for explanations. Riding the newfound momentum, Spock turns back to the wreckage of the bridge. "Lieutenants Chekov and Ho," he calls, "divert phaser control to manual. Technician Skia, take the additional Tactical board and cross-link your sensor feed to my display." There is a chorus of affirmatives from around the room and Spock can sense the shift in attitude. People begin to move with more purpose, their work infused with hope rather than simply duty.

Spock catches the eye of the young Ensign manning the pilot's station and momentarily longs for Uhura or Chekov behind that station. "Helm, full impulse. Heading one eight four mark two."

"Sir, that's a collision course!"

"We can't risk firing on the _Narada_ with the Red Matter inside," Ashe says urgently. "If the containment is breached, the whole system could get sucked into a singularity."

Spock wants to correct her, wants to say that they can't fire upon the _Narada_ with Jim still aboard, but the end result is the same, so he keeps his personal conflicts to himself. "I am aware of that, Lieutenant. However, we must do something to balance the terms of this engagement or we will surely be destroyed."

"What are you proposing?"

"Nero has disabled our shields by treachery," Spock says coldly, "so we must simply make use of an alternative."

Ashe's face pales even as her eyes light up. "You want to get in under _his_ shields! You want to use his own defenses against him!" She turns back to her board with renewed vigour, fingers flying over the screen as she verifies his course heading. "He's going to throw everything at us when he realizes, you do know that, right?"

"I am aware."

"And?"

Spock half-turns to include Chekov in the conversation. "And we must counter every offensive with one of our own."

"You want to shoot his bombs out of the sky?" Chekov asks slowly, as though that couldn't possibly be right.

"I do."

"Keptin," the youngster shakes his head. "It cannot be done."

Spock straightens imperceptibly, his face settling into uncompromising lines. "That is unacceptable."

"The speed of calculation alone," Ashe shakes her head in reluctant agreement, "the computer simply can't adapt in time."

"The firing solutions will be calculated manually," Spock informs her, "by Chekov and myself based on data supplied by Technician Skia. You will implement them and adjust for any course variations."

Ashe blinks, frozen for a split second in disbelief. Then she turns, lays her fingers back on the master Tactical board and exhales deeply. "Ready when you are."

Spock draws the control PADD out of the chair arm and looks over to auxiliary Tactical. "List incoming missile trajectories, Technician Skia, preferably in order of proximity."

"Aye, sir."

Their course is set, so all Spock has to do now is deal with the overwhelming flow of data that engulfs his PADD. He knows from the outset that some cluster bombs will inevitably elude them, but if they can minimize damage to the ship just long enough to slip under the _Narada's_ shields, then they may survive long enough for Jim to disable the Red Matter. As for the rest of the away team's plan, Spock experiences a relapse of trepidation, knowing that it rests on Jim's certainty that Prime has a solution.

  
-:-

  
Jim knows that time works differently during a meld, but he can't let go of his sense of urgency. Sheltered within the semi-familiarity of Prime's mind, he is joined by a new presence, a distinctly non-Vulcan presence. The object of Nero's affections figuratively 'stands' before them, the fear rolling off her in waves.

Jim gets her attention. "You must be Arrhae."

"I am." Her physical projection nods. "Spock assured me I would not be harmed."

"I've no reason to want to hurt you," Jim replies openly. "In fact, from what I've heard, you're our best hope of ending this madness."

Arrhae looks over her shoulder as though Nero might be listening in. "He truly is insane. He scares me."

Prime joins them, standing straight and unharmed in this meeting of minds. "You are wise to fear him. This version of Nero is particularly disturbed. He has been troubled in every incarnation I have encountered, but never has he so single-mindedly pursued a path of total illogic."

"Why does he believe this human is in possession of his wife's soul?"

Jim folds his arms. "That's the bit I don't get," he admits.

"When I created the original singularity in the prime universe, the _Narada_ was the first to pass through the temporal rift," Prime explains, settling into lecture mode. "The disturbance was unstable and somehow it fractured him, duplicating him across several parallel universes. By the time I entered, unable to escape, the singularity had stabilized, leaving me whole. As it happens, in the alternate universe _this_ Nero remembers, I knew his wife, Arrhae." Prime turns to the young Romulan with a slight smile. "She was a particularly gifted politician and Nero loved her, very much."

"Wait, how can each incarnation of Nero remember different histories if they started off as the same person?" Jim frowns. "And how can you be sure there's only one of _you?_ "

"Time is not linear," Prime says, eyebrow quirked. "What happens in the present influences the future, but also echoes in the past due to empathic entropy. At its most basic, quantum-mechanical phenomena ensure that causality is preserved without generating a mass-energy imbalance. Also, I have never met myself."

Jim blinks. "Yeah..."

"We have very little time," Prime apologizes. "If we are to save the Earth and neutralize Nero, we must experience perfect synchronicity."

"Let's do this," Jim nods. "I'm in."

Arrhae glances between them and swallows. "I do not know if I am capable of this."

Prime reaches out to her, places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "As I promised, you will not have to do anything alone."

  
-:-

  
"Captain, approaching shield perimeter," Helm informs him.

"Acknowledged," Spock manages, but barely. His fingers are flying across the screen of his PADD, solving vectors and integrating them with Chekov's work. Both of them are doing math as the answers present themselves, abandoning problems to work on others, hoping that between them solutions are always reached in time.

Ashe and Skia are almost sweating over the Tactical boards, letting loose a barrage of calculated phaser fire that picks out Nero's cluster bombs before they hit the _Enterprise's_ unprotected hull. Phaser fire still leaks through here and there, being more unpredictable to plot, but the ship is quickly drawing so close that the _Narada_ risks damaging itself with further offensives.

"T minus forty seconds," Helm announces.

Spock reminds himself to breathe and solves another vector. He flicks it to Tactical and three more take its place. He suddenly understands the human predilection for profanity under pressure. If he mouths a few choice words to himself, the bridge is far too busy for anyone to notice.

  
-:-

  
Jim opens his eyes to the real world and sways on his feet a little, disorientated by the multiple perspectives overlaying his own. He knows it's essential that he concentrate because Prime is there in his head, urgently dusting him off and pulling him together. The old man might be frail on the outside, but mentally he's a force to be reckoned with. Jim feels like his ears are full of cotton candy, with Nero's excited demands distant and fuzzy.

"Arrhae!" Nero is demanding, then speaking urgently in Romulan.

For some goddamn reason, Jim understands every syllable. He's going to blame Prime.

Arrhae takes a few shaky steps towards the dais and extends her hands in greeting. "Nero, my love, I am here."

Her voice is filled with emotion and it sounds a lot like terror to Jim, but maybe that's just because he can feel the echo of it along the light meld that still links the three of them. Nero obviously interprets it differently, because he's on his feet in an instant, arms around her in a crushing embrace.

"Arrhae, my worthy one," he translates, burying his face in her hair, overcome, "light of my world."

Jim feels a flicker of memory from Prime, pushed along the meld towards Arrhae, a name, a term of endearment. Dutifully, she lifts Nero's face and holds it between her hands. "Sun to my moon," she tells him with a tremulous smile.

"You remember," he whispers, tears gathering in his eyes.

"I do." Prime sends another prompt along the meld and her eyes dart around the room, body twisting to take in Jim, Eli and Prime himself. "My love, what is all this?"

Nero still holds her by the upper arms almost reverently, as though he cannot bear to lose physical contact. "It is your future," he tells her, tone full of pride. "I have worked tirelessly to create it for you."

Jim feels Prime give him a little mental shove and the show is on. "Worked tirelessly?" he taunts, chin raised in contempt. "Murdered, pillaged and destroyed, more like."

"Silence!" Nero hisses, almost shaking with rage. "You do not address my wife! You do not corrupt her with your lies!"

"She's spent months inside my mind," Jim lies. "She knows I'm telling the truth."

Nero turns back to her, his face eager, almost innocent in its pleading. “No, no, my love. Sacrifices had to be made, but I did it all so that we might once again have a universe free of Federation corruption. Free of their domination and tyranny, so that Romulus need not live in fear of the destruction that hangs over us, all the power in the hands of our enemies..." he softens, the fire going out of his eyes to be replaced by something tender. "And you," he breathes. "With you as the beating heart of us, with your wisdom and your grace at our head, we can build a new Romulus. A _better_ Romulus, free of the imperfections of the past."

Arrhae reaches out to him, lays her hands on his shoulders, and Jim can feel what it costs her to stand so close to him. "My dearest, dearest love," she says, her eyes filling with tears. "Our past shapes us in ways we cannot understand. To be free of our past is to lose what we are as a people."

Jim can feel Prime's influence in her turn of phrase, can sense his diplomatic experience shaping her concepts, lending her the words that will entrap their enemy.

"No," Nero shakes his head, eyes pressed tightly closed. "We must purge Federation corruption from our blood! Every last taint must be exorcised before we can reach our _true_ potential!"

"Which is?" Prime asks, giving Nero the opening he needs for his zealotry.

The warlord steps into it with glee, not realizing the light of insanity that takes over his face, contorting and twisting it into something even uglier. "We will be powerful! We will be feared! Romulus will lead and the rest of you will follow like obedient children, never again overstepping your limit, never again to be trusted with Romulan lives. You have been punished, all of you, for the crimes you committed and now," he turns back to Arrhae, his smile ecstatic, "you will have a benevolent leader for a brave, new era of Romulan rule!"

Taking his cue, Jim steps forward. "The Federation won't go down without a fight!"

Nero throws his head back and laughs. "I think you'll find the fight is over, Commander Kirk. You just haven't accepted it."

Jim cups a hand around his ear and leans into it. The distant sound of a firefight trickles into the vaulted room, the hiss and clang of an external assault on the _Narada_ barely audible, but present. "What do you call that, then?"

"Desperation," Nero taunts, "stubborn, human, desperation. But all that will change when the Earth is destroyed. Your people will collapse just as the Vulcans did, just as they _all_ do when they dare to stand against me."

"But why?" Arrhae whispers, her horror unfeigned. "Why must you destroy their world?"

Nero turns back to her, his whole being radiating apology. "You do not understand."

A jolt of urgency radiates down the meld as Prime leans on them.

Jim flicks a glance at the nearby Red Matter and readies himself.

Arrhae takes Nero's hand between her own and angles her head to stare into his eyes. " _Make_ me understand, because this destruction is not like you. You are a peaceful man, a loving father. This is not the Nero I remember."

His gaze softens further. He trails his fingertips through her hair, letting them rest on her cheek. "You always did see only the best in me," he confesses. "But Earth is ruined, Arrhae. Ruined beyond repair, just like everything else touched by the Rift. The planet is teeming with technology from other places, other times. I cannot allow it to shape the course of this future, to corrupt the New Romulan Empire I have built for you."

And there, _that_ is the opening they need.

"If it's the Rift you object to, then by your own reasoning, aren't _you_ tainted?" Jim demands, shaking loose of his guards to take a half step forward before they grab him and force him to his knees. He glares around the room at Nero's lackeys because his arms are pinned. "Aren't all of them?"

"Yes!" Nero growls. "Every single thing touched by the Rift must be purged from this universe before we can have our new beginning!"

"So, what?" Jim frowns, hardly believing it could be this easy. "You're going to suck this planet inside out and then throw yourself on the singularity like some fucked up fairytale classic?"

Prime presses again, prompting Arrhae.

She steps closer to Nero, clutching at his shoulders to turn aside his rage with Jim. "Tell me this isn't true!"

Nero hangs his head, clearly torn. Miserable, he looks back up at her. "By rights I should not even lay a finger on you, my love. The taint lies heavy on me, as does the burden of the lives I have taken. Necessary, yes, but it has cemented my fate. I cannot stay here with you in this new, perfect world. I do not belong here." He takes her hands in both of his. "Like all Rift materials, I exist only to destroy and you must be protected from that."

"No, my love!" Arrhae does a good job of looking gutted by the prospect instead of relieved.

He turns away, cannot bear to look at her apparent grief, and Jim doesn't need the surge across the meld to tell him it's time. He lunges forward, hearing the crumple as Prime nerve-pinches the two guards who were close enough to stand in the way. The muffled gasp and crack that follows coincides with the severance of the meld and Jim hopes like hell the old bastard is still alive.

He makes it to the Red Matter just as the click-whine of a dozen or more distruptors being drawn fills his ears. Slowly, carefully, Jim raises a delivery canister over his head, making sure to angle it so the green light hits the fleck of Red Matter suspended within. "Careful," he warns them. "You might not care if you live or die, but I'm pretty sure she's supposed to live." He nods at Arrhae.

Nero bares his teeth. "Put. That. Down."

"Mmm," Jim tilts his head, apparently considering. "I don't think I will."

"Put it down, or I will kill Spock," Nero threatens, pointing to the place where Prime lies crumpled on the deck, unmoving.

Jim steels himself, drawing on his best poker face. "Looks like you already have. Besides, if you want me to give a shit, you've got the wrong Spock."

Nero's grimace morphs into a knowing smile. "Do not pretend his death would not affect you."

Jim shrugs, his shoulders beginning to ache from holding the canister over his head. "I won't lie and say I'm not developing a soft spot for the meddling old fuck, but I'm not exactly going to lose sleep over it, either."

"Lies!" Nero shouts.

"Why don't you push me, and find out?" Jim snaps back.

"You will not destroy this ship with innocent lives aboard." Nero indicates Jim's battered EPAS flight suit. "Your allegiance gives you away, James Kirk. You are a saver of lives, not one who takes them."

"Dig a little deeper next time," Jim advises, gritting his teeth against the fear in his heart. "Don't you know I'm a murderer?"

With that, he swings the canister at the deck as hard as he can and all hell breaks loose.

 

-:-

 

Aboard the _Enterprise_ , Spock has mere seconds of relief as they slip beneath the _Narada's_ shields and out of weapons contact. Almost instantly, the sensor board goes wild, the feed piped to his station and Skia's.

"Captain! The Red Matter!" The sensor tech shouts.

"I see it." Spock forces himself to remain calm. Jim was early, they were not in position. He does not even know if the tranporters are functional given the amount of damage the ship has suffered.

Nevertheless, he comms Engineering. "Mr. Spock, lock onto the away team beacon and energize!"

There is nothing but static on the air.

"Mr. Scott, respond!"

The line remains silent.

Chekov leaps to his feet before Spock draws breath to give the order. "I can do that!" he announces, waiting only long enough for Spock to nod in acknowledgement before racing for the express lift, the one that plummets into the bowels of the ship in seconds.

Spock grits his teeth against the rising panic and glances at the feed from Tactical. "Lieutenant Ho, resume fire on the _Narada_. Target weapons systems only."

"Aye, sir." Ashe's voice is strained but their phasers start up again almost immediately.

Spock watches the fiery display on the main viewer, pointedly ignoring the trickle of perspiration that runs down his spine. Sick with tension, he takes a deep breath in and out, grappling for perspective as the gravitational sensors fluctuate more wildly every passing second.

  
-:-

  
The Red Matter canister shatters on impact and Jim leaps over it, drawing on years of Point experience to avoid the flinch that delays everyone else. He's used to shit blowing up in his face. He makes it to Arrhae's side in three running strides, whisking her away from Nero by an arm around her waist. The distraction of her theft allows Eli to draw Nero's own weapon, cocking it instantly at his head and circling around into view.

Shaking with rage, Nero is torn between the first sucking pop of atmosphere entering the canister and the sight of his beloved wife held captive. "What have you _done?_ " he screams, fists clenched impotently at his sides.

Eli circles around to stand with Jim and Arrhae, disruptor hand steady as a rock. "Take this," he says to Jim, passing him the transponder booster without looking.

Jim glances down at his hand and, realizing what's in it, tries to protest.

Eli steps neatly aside, circling back around to put distance between them. Clearly identifying him as more of a threat, all the disruptors in the room follow him, leaving Jim and Arrhae largely in the clear.

"Where do you store the future technologies?" Eli demands.

Nero chokes in disbelief. "We are all going to die here, and you wish to _rob_ me?"

Eli takes a step forward, the disruptor held at eye level. "The future tech!" he shouts. "Now!"

The sight of a Vulcan in a rage is clearly distracting for everyone, because Jim manages to circle round to Prime without more than one or two disruptors following their movement. Even then, it is clear that not all Nero's lackeys share his enthusiasm for coming to an end in the crush of a singularity, because most eyes in the room are trained on the fractured canister. It has just started to whistle ominously as air enters the crack with increasing velocity.

Nero trembles with rage and panic, then suddenly calms, fingers uncurling at his side. "Get her off this ship," he demands. "Or I tell you nothing."

Jim catches Eli's desperate glance just as he kneels over Prime. He doesn't have a fucking clue what the crazy kid is doing, thinking of science at a time like this, but Prime reaches up, clasps bent fingers around Jim's calf.

"Do as he says."

Jim's in so deep now that following Prime's instructions seems as good a course of action as any. Still, he hasn't forgotten the plan he has with the other Spock, or the ticking time bomb of Red Matter he's unleashed mere klicks from the surface of the Earth. With an angry growl, and an internal apology to his Spock, he shoves the signal booster into the pocket of Prime's robe and activates it, drawing Arrhae into the field before stepping back.

"This tech, it better be diabolically important," Jim bitches, standing and stepping back out of range. "Because if I find out it poaches the perfect egg, I'm going to be really, _really_ cranky."

"No..." Prime's eyes widen just as silver sparks engulf him and Arrhae. "Jim!"

They disappear off the deck and Kirk looks up to find himself in the midst of a very tense standoff. Eli has a gun to Nero's head, Nero's goons have their weapons trained on _everybody_ , and the canister restraints are starting to bow under the pressure, plassteel be damned. Warily, Jim rises to his feet, hands raised.

"The way I see it," he begins, addressing the guards in the room. "The Vulcan and I are your best hope of getting out of here alive. You already know your boss has a death wish, so you can hang around here and be crushed to atoms, or you can give the Vulcan what he wants and we'll get you off this ship."

Hesitantly, a skinny Romulan guard, very senior by the look of him, steps forward. "Why would you help us?"

Jim gestures at the emblem on his EVA suit. "Emergency Personnel Ambulance Service," he recites. "We don't care why you need us, we just save lives."

"You are all tainted by the Rift, Ayel," Nero growls. "We must die together or doom this universe."

"Says you," Jim retorts, feeling the atmosphere in the room start to unbend. "And you're _insane_ , so..."

One by one, the Romulans shift subtly. Nero's face flushes green with fury as the disruptors come to rest on him. Only two guards remain loyal and the senior guard, Ayel, shoots them both without hesitation. It is a clear and present reminder that these people are not allies, that their loyalty is fluid and cannot be trusted.

Jim turns to Eli. "We don't have much time."

The kid eyes the stressed canister, clearly torn between his objectives. Jim rationalizes it must be an incredibly important gadget to weigh in so heavily against the imminent birth of a singularity. The kid clenches his jaw and steps forward to press the barrel of the disruptor against Nero's skull.

" _Defaehre aisha, vikra anhelae?_ " he demands.

Without Prime in his head, translating, Jim can't decipher the meaning, but he infers enough to get the gist. "I think he's serious about this."

" _Vikra?_ " Eli shouts, twisting the weapon so he can stare into Nero's eyes.

Unfortunately, Jim realizes, with Arrhae out of immediate danger they have very little leverage. After all, Nero was hoping everything would get sucked into oblivion, so the longer he delays, the more chance there is that Arrhae may escape and his plan will still unfold as intended.

The smile that blossoms on Nero's face confirms Jim's suspicions just as Eli lowers the weapon with a huff of frustration, clearly having reached a similar conclusion.

"I will take you to it," Ayel says, out of nowhere.

Eli turns to him, new hope flaring in his eyes. "We have no time to lose."

"In return, you will take us all with you," Ayel insists, clearly suspicious. "Every single one, and we will be free to return to Romulus."

"Agreed," Jim promises, wondering how the hell he's going to swing that with Spock. "You have my word."

Ayel nods, barks out a few orders in Romulan and sets off into the bowels of the ship with Eli in tow. This leaves Jim and Nero staring it out across the whining hum of the rapidly disintegrating canister. A handful of anxious guards remain, weapons half cocked, unsure of the status quo.

Jim bends slowly and retrieves the phasers they'd taken from him, buckling them around his waist, reassured by their familiar weight.

"Every seconds brings us closer to an event horizon none of us can escape," Nero says conversationally, chillingly calm under the circumstances. "Arrhae, maybe, has a chance. I believe Spock grew to care for her somewhat over the weeks they spent together, preparing to restore her _katra_. How ironic, that my greatest enemy should unwittingly become the protector of the only thing I love."

Jim glances down at the canister. It has started to flex inward now, rather than expand outward. The science geek in him is strangely fascinated. He's essentially seeing the formation of a singularity in slow motion, the damaged containment field unable to maintain Red Matter stability, but still sufficiently intact to delay the inevitable.

When he looks up again, Nero is grinning.

"Tick, tick, tick."

-:-

  
In the _Enterprise_ transporter room, Lieutenant Chekov's hands relax across the controls and he looks up, expecting to see a whole lot of Red Matter, or at the very least, the entire away team. Instead, the ancient Vulcan known as Sarek and a strange Romulan woman kneel on the pad.

"Oy..." he sighs. "This is a problem."

  
-:-

  
Inside the canister, the little bubble of Red Matter starts to tremble and Jim knows they're in trouble. "Eli, come in!" he calls, thumbing his comm. "Hurry it up, let's go!"

As if by magic, the young Vulcan bursts onto the scene at a dead run, something large and bulky tucked under his arm. He's followed by Ayel and a large cohort of guards. Galvanized, Jim starts backing away towards the maintenance hatch where, hopefully, T'Loren and Uhura are waiting for them.

"I know for a fact this ship has escape pods," he tells the rapidly increasing crowd of Romulans. "Get to them and launch immediately. Order your people to stop firing on Federation ships and the _Enterprise_ will deploy her medevac shuttles and extract you."

"How do we know you won't simply shoot us out of the sky?" Ayel demands, fear in his eyes.

"It's your choice." Jim gestures at the small flashes of energy that now lick over the canister. "But I know where I'd rather be."

With that, he breaks into a sideways run, not quite trusting any of them enough to fully turn his back. Eli makes it to the hatch first, rapping on it in the pattern they'd agreed upon. A few split seconds pass before it releases with a click to reveal Uhura. When Jim unfolds on the other side, he realizes she's covered in green blood.

"Hurry," she says, already backing away, urging them on. "I don't know how long T'Loren can hold them off!"

"Sonofabitch!" Jim curses, because of _course_ there's been no co-ordinated truce across the _Narada_ ; everyone has been too busy freaking out over his little stunt with the Red Matter.

  
-:-

  
It's apparent that if she'd been able, Ashe would have leaped to her feet in triumph. As it is, she slaps her fist down on the arm of her chair and lets loose a little whoop. "They're evacuating! Multiple escape pods launched, weapons systems inactive!"

Spock relaxes minutely into the center seat, nodding his understanding.

"Captain, I have a firing solution. Your orders?" Skia turns, awaiting a response.

For a second, Spock's vision almost whites out with the desire to eradicate every last trace of Nero from this universe. His fingers itch to sweep across the boards himself, his eyes burn to see them collapse into flame. Instead, he swallows, shakes his head. "Deploy medevac shuttles, Alpha and Beta rotations. All available staff make up crew complement where possible. Bring them in."

"Sir?" Skia responds, disbelieving.

Spock forces himself to take a breath, then another one. "You heard me, Technician. Our mission, where possible, is to preserve life." He glances pointedly around the bridge. " _All_ life, regardless of race or affiliation. If there is to be a Federation after Nero, then it starts here, with us."

Ashe, in her role as Acting First Officer while Jim is deployed, nods fiercely. "Aye sir, understood. Weapons to defensive fire only."

"Communications?"

"Aye, Captain?" Hannity responds.

"Broadcast mayday on all channels. Perhaps there are some undamaged vessels willing to assist us."

"Yes, sir!"

Spock watches the black, bristling hull of the _Narada_ skim past them, so close it feels like he could reach out and touch it. The gravitational sensors are still blaring out a warning and Jim is running out of time. They all are.

  
-:-

  
Jim, Uhura and Eli have to fight their way down the short corridor that leads to the small transporter pad. Jim tries yelling at the Romulans, trying to explain that Ayel is in charge and they've surrendered. Unsurprisingly, the Romulans choose to disbelieve him. With a twinge of regret, he bottles them up between their fire and T'Loren's until all that's left is a smoking heap of bodies and yet another memory to wake him in the night.

Eli swings his stolen disruptor around onto his back by the strap and makes straight for the transporter console. It's a smoking, damaged ruin and his hands hover over it for a second while he assesses the damage, then delve in with purpose.

T'Loren lies slumped against the platform, phaser rifle held in across her lap, apparently too heavy to lift at this point. Her chest is a gaping, sucking ruin of flesh and bone. Every breath begins with a gurgle and ends with a hiss of barely controlled pain.

"How the fuck did this happen?" Jim demands, falling to his knees and breaking open his thigh kit, scattering hypos and dressings on the floor with abandon.

"They ambushed us," Uhura says hurriedly, glancing away from her defensive position near the door. "She took the shot for me. Just stepped right into it."

Jim presses his hands against the relentless flow of green blood, knowing it's bad. T'Loren looks up at him, defeat in her eyes. "Why'd you have to go and be a hero?" he asks.

"Old habits...die hard," she gasps out, and Jim laughs despite the graveness of the situation, because that's the first time he's ever heard a human phrase pass her lips. But then her brow furrows and her body arches in pain, twisting her hips off the ground and causing a fresh torrent of blood to cascade over Jim's gloves.

"You never told me what you were doing on the _Tat'sar_ ," he says conversationally, trying to stem the flow with one hand while he wields hypos with the other.

T'Loren inclines her head to the left. "It was Elikh who convinced me."

He follows her nod, his eyes settling on Eli who has his work cut out for him with the slagged transporter console. "Elikh? From the Vulcan; _that which is free?_ "

"No," the youngster says without looking up, stripping a piece of wiring with his teeth. "From the Hebrew, for ‘god.'" He does glance over then, twisting a circuit into place with a smile.

Jim turns back to T'Loren. "I don't know if you've noticed, but he's a bit strange for a Vulcan."

She coughs, face a blank mask even as her body begins to tremble. "I have informed him on many occasions."

Jim presses harder into the wound, but her pulse is barely a flutter under his palms now. All the packs he has are stuffed into the gory crater, but he can't get enough pressure on it and he can't clamp the bleeders. She's dying and they both know it. "Tell me what you need."

She lifts her head as though it weighs a ton. "Live long, and prosper James Kirk. It is all I ask."

He shifts a hand to grip one of hers, the pressure of both is largely pointless. It's an intimate gesture but her fingers cling gratefully, slick and sticky green. "I'm sorry."

"No. It is I who should apologize. She shrugs slightly, the effort clearly costing her. "Every day since Vulcan has seemed a year, so perhaps I am old and this is my time."

"No," Eli corrects her gently, coming to crouch beside them. "You are a warrior, and your sacrifice will be honored."

She blinks up at him, fading fast. "You, at least, saw me as I might have been...for what I _could_ have achieved. You have my gratitude."

" _Nash-veh vokau du, T'Loren, u'du i'tra, vahk eh pthak-fam_ ," he soothes, reaching for her other hand.

She dies holding onto them both, slipping away quietly, surrounded by the wreckage of the control console.

Eli looks at Jim over her dead body. "I cannot fix the transporter."

"Jim! Incoming!" Uhura calls, falling to one knee to steady her aim.

"This is getting out of hand," Jim mutters, releasing T'Loren's body gently and scrambling to his feet.

Disruptor fire starts raining against the equipment around them and they hasten to find cover behind Uhura. Six Romulans have them pinned down from the cross-corridor, pummelling them with green light until even Uhura has to back down, taking refuge behind a trash receptacle. Jim ducks his head out for a look and pulls back hurriedly, the motion followed by more energy bolts.

"We must find an alternate route of escape," Eli says calmly. "Perhaps an escape pod or a shuttle."

"Transporters on the Jacee!" Jim exclaims suddenly, craning his neck for another look. "Only problem is, we have to get past _them._ "

All at once there is a sucking pop, loud enough to be heard from a distance, yet somehow devoid of sound. Jim feels the shift in air pressure as his inner ears pop and his stomach drops away. Suddenly, the Romulans in the corridor are the least of their worries.

"Red Matter," he breathes, glancing between them. "Everyone, off this ship!"

As the first gravitational shift ripples outwards, the three of them charge the corridor, weapons hot. As the bolts sizzle and pop around him, Jim finds the presence of mind to open a channel to the _Enterprise._ He doesn't speak, doesn't have the breath for it, but it should be enough for someone monitoring their frequency. Enough to know they're alive.

  
-:-

  
"Captain, I have them!" Hannity exclaims. "The away team just came online."

"Status?" Spock replies sharply.

Hannity presses the receiver deeper into her ear, brow furrowed in concentration. "I just get a lot of weapons fire and static," she confesses. "Perhaps someone else is on the frequency?"

"No," Spock pushes to his feet. "They are alive."

The turbolift doors swish open and Prime staggers onto the bridge. Technician Skia moves to help him, but the old Vulcan waves the assistance away. "Containment has been breached. You must contact Captain Senekot," he wheezes, a frightening vista of bruised skin stretched over bone. "He will know what to do."

"Contact the _Tat'sar_ ," Spock orders, eyes now fixed on the first flickering of singularity lightning from the _Narada_. "Advise him the Red Matter is not salvageable."

"Aye, sir," Hannity reponds immediately.

"Spock," his counterpart manages, sinking to his knees, finding the limit of his endurance. "Do not let this sacrifice be for nothing."

Unsure of Prime's meaning, Spock turns back to the main viewer with a hard lump of dread in the pit of his stomach. "Rescue operations, withdraw," he orders. "All shuttles, return to the ship."

  
-:-

  
Uhura uses her hands to vault over the center console and into the Pilot's seat. Jacee isn't going anywhere, but they need to bring the engines online in order to power up the transporters. Ponderously, the hum of impulse power grows, rattling the shattered floor beneath their feet. It feels as though the shuttle would rather shake apart than beam then anywhere, but finally, the gauge hovers in the yellow, the barest safe charge for transportation and Uhura shimmies back into the main cabin.

"Now or never," she announces.

"Go on, then," Jim urges, manhandling her onto the pad.

"But ..."

"Don't argue with me, Nyota," he snaps. " _Enterprise_ is damn short on pilots. Get yourself behind the wheel of _something_ and start cleaning up this mess."

Before she has time to protest further, he toggles the transporter and she disappears in a swirl of argumentative sparks.

"Does everyone question your orders?" Eli enquires, still training a disruptor through the open hatch just in case of stray Romulans.

"No," Jim shakes his head. "Not unless they think I'm about to do something incredibly stupid."

"Are you?"

Jim grins. "Oh yeah."

"May I enquire..."

"Not about to let my planet get obliterated," Jim interrupts, donning his visor and sealing it for decompression. "Seen too many worlds disappear in the blink of an eye," he continues over the suit comm as Eli follows his lead. "Vulcan, Vega, Solis-Allera, Robicon ..."

"And your plan?"

"Stop Nero." Jim checks the charge on his phaser and tucks a spare into his thigh holster. "Because if you think he's given up, you're not as clever as you look."

  
-:-

  
For the second time in minutes, Chekov locks onto a signal and energizes the transporter, only to materialize something unexpected. This time it is Lieutenant Uhura, covered in green blood and cursing so profoundly it makes the young Russian blush with admiration.

"Where is the Commander?" he asks when she pauses for breath.

"Being a moron!" she growls, pulling at her hair in frustration. "I need to get to the bridge."

  
-:-

  
"I admit, my curiosity has got the best of me," Eli comments as he drops two Romulans in quick succession.

"Oh, yeah?"

The young Vulcan glances at Kirk as they make their way unsteadily through the singularity gale back into Red Matter storage area. "How did you know the canister would not simply rupture and form an immediate singularity?"

"I didn't," Jim confesses. "It was a hunch."

The kid stares at him for a full thirty seconds, unblinking, then directs his eyes forwards again. "Fascinating."

Jim opens his mouth to reply, pauses as though listening to something, then says something different instead. "Feel that?"

Eli concentrates for a second, then nods. "The _Narada_ is moving."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I wonder where to."

  
-:-

  
"Captain Spock," Senekot intones with a nod, his stern face filling up the viewer. "Your crew have performed admirably."

"Containment has been breached aboard the _Narada_ ," Spock says, wasting no time in formalities. "The ship is moving under power."

"Nero has set a collision course for Earth," Senekot agrees.

"He must be stopped."

"Has the Red Matter been tagged for transportation?"

Spock glances down at his control board, seeing the reassuring flicker of the beacon. "Yes."

"Then withdraw to a safe distance," Senekot commands. "You can do no more."

Spock takes an involuntary half step forward. "There are still three members of the away team unaccounted for."

"Make that two," Uhura announces, emerging from the turbolift in all her bloodstained glory to oust the relief from the Helm.

"Where are the Divisional Commander and Eli?" Spock demands.

"Still aboard," Uhura says through gritted teeth. "I hazard a guess they won't be beaming out in the near future."

"We cannot delay any longer," Senekot interjects. "Even now, the newborn singularity is almost beyond the scope of our containment technology."

"What will happen to those still aboard the _Narada?_ " Spock questions, his voice unnaturally calm.

"They, too, will be caught in the stasis field." Senekot considers him from the ten foot screen, his expression hardening. "The risk involved in extracting them would be irreconcilable."

Spock's eyes fall to the floor and there is silence on the bridge. Everybody seems to catch their breath, waiting. "Understood," he manages finally. " _Enterprise_ out."

The connection is terminated just as Uhura pushes to her feet. "You can't _honestly_ expect me to believe you're going to leave them!"

Spock lifts his head and meets her head on, stare for stare. "Helm, back away from the _Narada_ , bearing minus one eight zero. Confirm."

"Spock, for god's sake!" Uhura pleads.

"Helm, _confirm!_ " Spock growls, his jaw clenched and his eyes full of fire.

Uhura swallows heavily, sinking back into her seat as though too weak to stand. "Aye, sir," she says in a small voice. "Bearing one eight zero, full reverse."

The _Enterprise_ slips from the protecting comfort of the _Narada's_ shields and quickly gathers speed. Spock feels every millimeter of distance like an ache in his bones.

On the viewscreen, the _Narada_ beings to gather speed, arrowing straight for the hole it drilled into the heart of the Earth.

  
-:-

  
Jim raises his phaser as he and Eli approach, circling to move into Nero's line of sight where he sits hunched over the navigation console of his great ship. "Step away from the controls!" He has to bellow over the sucking, juvenile singularity behind them.

"Or you'll do what?" Nero scoffs, turning lazily to face them. "You have no power over me! _Death_ has no power over me; I welcome it."

"Commander, this is pointless." Eli takes one step back towards the exit, still clutching his precious future tech. "We must leave now, before it is too late."

Jim raises his arm further, staring down the barrel of his weapon into Nero's eyes. "You took everything from me. My father, my family, the life I might have had. I won't let you take my home, my planet." He takes a step closer, fluid and menacing. "Turn this ship around. Now."

"When all traces of Rift corruption are removed from this timeline, you will see that I was right to do this. My wife will be a compassionate Emperor; she will most likely spare your life."

"There is no time for this!" Eli insists, urgency breaking through his Vulcan monotone.

A compulsion grips Jim, a yearning so strong it feels as though he might not live without it. He wants to tell Nero the truth about Arrhae, he wants to see that bastard shatter beyond repair, to wound him near to death the way he has crippled countless others. The words sit on the tip of his tongue, vile but so full of righteous satisfaction. He hesitates, just for second, but it is long enough for his comm to buzz with static and then form voices.

 _Enterprise away team, this is the _Tat'sar_. Evacuate the Romulan vessel immediately. Repeat, evacuate immediately._

Jim takes a breath, purses his lips to say it ...

"Come," says Eli, a firm hand on his shoulder. "What good would it bring? What benefit?"

Jim looks up, weapon still pointed at Nero, searching the youngster's face for an explanation. The peace he finds there, the solemn understanding, it reminds him of Spock. Suddenly he's crashing back down to reality. The kid is right. Nero is a madman and Jim needs to get off this ship. Revenge, sweet though it would be, is not worth his future.

"After you," he grits out, shaking with reaction.

They leave Nero on the bridge of his ship, surrounded by the bodies of Romulan guards he likely shot himself, waiting with a smile on his face for the singularity to engulf him.

  
-:-

  
Space is cold and silent, although that truth is often overlooked. The most violent of events, when it occurs in a vacuum, seems strangely anti-climatic. Robbed of the accompanying soundtrack, the destruction of the _Narada_ plays out like a vicious silent film.

The _Tat'sar_ approaches just in time, passing the limping _Enterprise_ in a gleaming, sinuous rush. She deploys the most stunning display of future technology ever seen in this universe: a Penrose-Hawking field of unparallelled proportions. The beautiful example of Vulcan shipbuilding whines under the load, her engines cascading through a series of spectacular failures even as the field solidifies. A split second shimmer in the air and the _Narada_ collapses in on itself without a sound.

The _Tat'sar's_ running lights flicker and short out, but the Penrose-Hawking field is fed by the singularity itself, folding into the crack in space-time until it plugs the gap. Gravity is satisfied, the mass balance is maintained and there is nothing to indicate where the _Narada_ once was except for empty space.

  
-:-

  
"All stations, report," Spock demands hoarsely.

"Nawigation, clear," Chekov responds quietly, having returned to the bridge.

"Ops, clear," Ashe adds.

"Sciences, clear."

And so the primary areas give the green light one by one and everyone on the bridge starts to relax, starts to imagine they might have finally, inconceivably, won.

Everyone except Spock, that is. With every report, his shoulder blades draw closer together, his fingers grip the armrests more tightly, imperceptible to all but those who know him intimately...which is pretty much every core person on the bridge.

Hannity and Chekov trade glances with each other, then turn to Ashe. She releases the brakes on her chair and smoothly propels herself to the center seat. And waits.

When Mr. Scott finally checks in, citing numerous spot fires and a list of repairs longer than _War and Peace_ , but no immediate danger of warp core failure, Spock turns to his CTO. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Ashe lifts her chin and stares him right in the eye. "You are relieved, sir."

Spock's exemplary Vulcan mask slips as the barest hint of _something_ shows in the parting of his lips, the fortifying breath he draws. "I do not understand."

"Yeah, you do," Ashe confirms for him. "I have the conn, now go and get your DivCO."

The relief breaks fully-fledged across his face, destroying the illusion of calm in a rush of emotion. There was a time in her life that Ashe would have given anything to see him that torn up about her, to slip beneath his controls and touch something as powerful as the look on his face right then. Now, all it does is scare her, the depth of they way Spock _needs_ to be the one who goes for Jim, will only trust himself to defy all the odds and bring him back alive.

To do him credit, Spock hasn't allowed it to interfere with his command of the _Enterprise_. Not once has he slipped and spared the away team more than he could reasonably afford. Grief wars with the hope in his eyes, because he _has_ to know the statistical likelihood of anyone surviving that implosion.

Ashe rolls a little closer, drops her voice. "Go on," she urges in an undertone, "you've done your duty."

Her words galvanize him. New purpose hardens his expression as he pushes to his feet, one hand briefly settling on her shoulder in acknowledgement. "I am relieved," he intones, with just a touch of irony.

There are scattered chuckles around the bridge and a subtle easing of the remaining tension.

Chekov stands with a tug on his shirt. "I would like to wolunteer, sir," he announces, not waiting for approval before relinquishing his board and coming to stand on the dais. "You will need a pilot."

"And a Point One," Hannity adds, plucking out her earpiece and rising to join them.

McCoy emerges from the turbolift, swiftly taking in the small grouping. "The doctor is in," he grins with a flash of teeth.

"How..." Hannity begins to ask.

"Please," he smirks. "Leave no soul, blah blah blah. Plus, I've been working with this mad bastard," he gestures at Spock, "for so long that I don't need to be psychic, just familiar with his brand of insanity."

Spock glances at each of them in turn as though weighing their commitment against his duty to protect them. He doesn't say a word about logic or regulation, just inclines his head and sweeps them all up in his wake.

 

 


	44. epilogue

Jim drifts slowly towards consciousness to the sound of beeping. It's regular, muted and really kind of comforting. Familiar.

Hesitantly, he cracks one eye open.

The view that greets him is of trees through a window. Real trees, wind- tossed and green with upcoming spring. _Sycamore_ , he thinks, then smiles. He's on Earth. They saved the Earth.

"You are awake."

Jim turns his head towards the gentle baritone, his smile deepening. "Spock. We did it."

He nods, pushing off from the wall to stand by Jim's biobed. "You are at a private medical institution in Atlanta. Starfleet Medical denied you admittance. You have been in a coma for nine days."

Jim wants to say something, wants to apologize maybe, because it's obvious to him that Spock has been deeply concerned. Instead, all that comes out is a croak and he has to sip water through a straw.

He swallows and clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he manages.

"You are lucky to be alive," Spock scolds, dark eyes glinting with fury. "What possessed you to remain on the _Narada_ after transporting Lieutenant Uhura?"

Jim looks him square in the eye, willing him to understand. "I had to face my demons."

"Alone, Jim?"

"No. I knew you were there. You'd never leave me behind."

He casts around blindly until Spock takes his hand. He enfolds it in both of his, the grip desperate, a little too hard for comfort. Jim wouldn't have it any other way.

"The kid, Eli?" Jim asks, memory slowly returning.

"You owe him your life." Spock sounds strangely curious about the whole thing. "Seconds before the ship imploded, he employed one of the remote transporter devices to gain clearance. Doctor McCoy has been heard to remark that the boy has 'one hell of a pitcher's arm on him,' whatever that means."

"Baseball reference," Jim explains, exhausted but still desperate for answers. "We literally transported into dead space?"

"Yes." Spock does not sound happy. "Nothing protected you from rematerializing within a piece of the not inconsiderable wreckage in orbit."

"It was our only chance," Jim recalls, thinking back to desperately cycling the closest airlock. "We'd never have made it back past the singularity to the shuttle transporter."

"It is wise to cultivate multiple options."

"Are you lecturing me, seriously?"

"You nearly died."

"But I didn't."

"This time."

"Spock..."

"Enough," Spock says forcefully, pressing the fingertips of his free hand to Jim's lips. "I do not wish to speak of it."

Jim can feel the slight tremor in that touch and his defensiveness melts away instantly. "I think there's room for two on this bed."

"You are mistaken," Spock replies, but Jim can feel a slight easing of the tension in him. "Besides, doctor McCoy is due any moment and I am quite certain that he will disapprove of an attempt."

"Fine," Jim sighs dramatically.

Spock moves to withdraw his hand but Jim catches it, holding on until Spock looks him in the eye. "But when we get out of here, you're going to bond us and then I'm never letting go of you again."

  
-:-

  
Four days later, McCoy discharges Jim from hospital. Spock suspects it has less to do with Jim's actual readiness and more to do with his incessant nagging.

F-Sec have them all up on charges. It's only by the grace of Spock's diplomatic immunity and McCoy's questionable position in the chain of command that they're not being held without bail like everyone else. Bones tried to wrangle Ashe a get out of jail free card on account of her being in a wheelchair, but the court ruled that if she was fit enough to steal a starship, she'd cope just fine with the penal system. Ashe was unaccountably pleased by that. Jim can't stop laughing at the disgruntled expression on McCoy's face every time he thinks about it.

That leaves the three of them under house arrest at McCoy's place, which suits them just fine. Admiral Pike has been missing since the evacuation of Luna, but they return from the hospital that day to find an old fashioned postcard in the mail. Puzzled by the blank section that should hold writing, Spock flips it back to the picture on the front and raises an eyebrow.

Jim takes one look at it and bursts out laughing. It's a crude illustration of a hydrospanner and a sheep with the word 'Komack' scrawled underneath in Pike's distinctive handwriting.

"Kindly explain the significance of these objects," Spock demands.

Jim hands the card to McCoy and makes his way gingerly up the stairs. He can hear the doctor chuckling and his voice as he patiently explains.

"Well, what do you use a hydrospanner for, Spock? You screw things with it. And this? This is sheep, a female sheep. So put it together and what do you get?"

There is a loaded silence and Jim pauses on the landing, one hand pressed to his grin as he waits for Spock's reply.

"Is Pike suggesting the Admiral favours intercourse with animals?"

"What? No!" McCoy laughs, then laughs harder and Jim can hear the sound of Spock getting a slap on the back. "But I like the way your mind works."

"I do not understand."

Jim thinks of all the moments like these he has to look forward to and smiles so hard it actually hurts his face.

-:-

  
Later that night, when the house is quiet and McCoy fast asleep, Spock and Jim sit facing one another on the rug near the open fire. The night is far from cold, but together they build a small blaze, just enough to light the room and cast a gentle warmth.

Spock is wearing a simple black robe, the sleeves long enough to conceal his hands. Jim sits opposite in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a soft cotton t-shirt. Both are barefoot. Jim spares a thought for all the pomp and circumstance that would grace an event like this on _Nu'ri Ah'rak_ , but one glance at the intensity on Spock's face confirms they don't need it.

All they need is each other.

"I'm ready," Jim says, matching Spock's pose, close enough that their knees touch.

Spock nods solemnly and Jim feels a surge of love for the fact that he doesn't ask if he's sure, doesn't question Jim's resolve.

In silence, Spock lifts first his right hand, then his left. Carefully, with immaculately manicured fingers, he makes intricate little folds in the belled sleeves of his robe. With each flick and tuck, more of his arms are revealed. Jim wonders why it took him until now to realize that this isn't going to be about sex, that the bonding ceremony will be steeped in tradition and mystery no matter whether it is held here or on the red sands of Vulcan-that-was.

His eyes follow Spock's every move until he stills, palms facing the ceiling between them. "Place your hands over mine, but do not touch," he instructs.

Jim reaches out and lets his hands hover barely a centimeter above Spock's own.

"Close your eyes."

Jim does.

Suddenly, he's incredibly conscious of the fact they are nearly holding hands. His fingers tingle with energy, almost like static, except hotter, like he's cupping a flame. "What is that?" he breathes.

"We share a natural affinity," Spock responds softly. "Our minds are very compatible."

"Why couldn't I feel it before?"

"Because I blocked it."

Jim's eyes flutter open and Spock seems to sense it because his do, too. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

"You _know_ why," Spock reminds him. "To share the mind of another without express permission is a violation. After the bonding, it will be virtually impossible to block. It will not bother you?"

Jim glances down at their hands, feels the growing warmth between them and shakes his head. "No. It's...comforting. I like it."

Spock follows the direction of Jim's gaze. "Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched," he recites, and there is something reverent in his voice, something Jim has never heard before. When Spock looks up, his eyes are the most human Jim has ever seen them; big and brown and filled with a mix of fear and love.

"All the barriers, Jim."

"Yes, I remember."

Spock swallows and lets his left hand rise to clasp Jim's right. The contact is visceral. Jim feels it deep in his gut. The other hand lifts to hover at Jim's temple and cheek. Tentatively, hot fingertips settle against his face, gently sliding into position with a deliberation and tenderness he's never before experienced in a meld.

Using both hands, Spock draws them inwards so their foreheads rest together, until they are breathing the same air.

"My mind to your mind," he whispers. "My thoughts to your thoughts..."

 _Spock witnesses the beatings of Jim's childhood, all the horror and the perversion he has kept hidden for so long. Jim shows him the shame and the fear. He displays the scars he keeps hidden deep inside, the places that never see the light of day except in his nightmares. Spock comes to know the dread of footsteps in the night, the pain of broken bones and the gut-wrenching loss when one at a time, his family leave him. First Dad, then Mom, then Sam, until there is only Frank and Jim is terrified that one day he'll wake up to find all the fight has gone out of him and Frank has won. So instead, there is a gun and a lot of blood and a town that he doesn't want to talk to because they can't possibly understand. There is guilt so heavy it is suffocating and a sense of worthlessness that haunts his every failure. It is not enough to be good at something, he has to be the best. He has to keep running until he finds a place to call home._

 _Spock lays comforting hands on Jim's bruises. He bars the door to Jim's room and holds his hand in the emergency department. He whispers promises of something better when the people of Riverside curse and spit. He shows Jim the _Stalwart_ and the _Enterprise_ and the sunlit kitchen of the San Francisco apartment._

Jim tumbles into the cold disapproval of Spock's peers, all the snide remarks and barbed comments. Spock shows him the inner rage, incandescently Vulcan. He shares the memories of countless treks out into the desert, shaking with emotion, afraid of what he might do. Jim comes to know the moment where Spock held a blade against his skin the night after his khas-wan and really thought about whether it might feel good. Jim is there when Spock throws himself into logic, dedicates himself to the Vulcan ideal, because the only way to end the suffering is to truly experience control. Instead, there is a Vulcan girl who repudiates him and her father who digs around in his mind and does not like what he sees. There is his own mother, so desperate for him to purge his humanity even though it was her gift, and he does not understand how he has twisted that blessing into something she can hate. He is trapped, deeply flawed, and the only safe course of action is to withdraw, smother, shut down.

Jim runs riot down the halls of Spock's disapproving childhood, a whirlwind of colour and life that banishes the tension and disapproval. He firmly takes the knife from Spock's hands and holds them instead. He embraces Spock's dedication to logic but also revels in each moment of sarcasm, each glint of humor or mischief. Jim holds a mirror up to his human self and smiles until Spock smiles back. He shows Spock his own compassion, his fanatically loyal crew and the faces of every save he remembers.

Somehow, amongst all the viciousness of history, they find each other.

When Jim opens his eyes they're damp with tears and he's shaking. Spock pulls back so they can see each other and he looks just as wrecked.

"Oh, my god," Jim breathes. "I don't even..."

They fold into each other, a mess of knees and arms until they're just clinging, faces buried in shoulders, holding on for dear life. It seems impossible that they should let go, so Jim reaches out and wraps them in the throw from the bed and they fall asleep in front of the fire.

  
-:-

  
Jim wakes in the cold light of dawn with his head pillowed on Spock's arm. It's not a particularly comfortable arm, wiry and masculine as it is, so he jacks himself onto one shoulder and stares down at his bondmate.

Spock regards him calmly, dark eyes huge in the semi-darkness.

Jim feels a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach and suddenly breaks into a smile. "You're laughing at me, I can feel it."

Spock reaches up a lazy hand to pat at Jim's head. "Your hair assumes most amusing configurations first thing in the morning."

"Oh yeah?" Jim counters. "Well, you talk in your sleep."

"I do not."

"How can you be sure?"

"I am only certain that you have no evidence to back up your claim."

"This bond is really inconvenient." Jim smiles down at him, fully aware that Spock knows he's joking. "It's got to be good for something other than helping you beat me at chess."

"I am sorry you find the experience less than satisfactory. What were you expecting?"

"Oh, I don't know," Jim considers airily. "There are so many rumors about Vulcans, it's hard to know where to start."

Spock quirks an eyebrow, playing along. "Perhaps I can assist you in determining their validity?"

"Okay, mindmelds. Specifically mindmelds and sex," Jim says firmly.

"You already know the answer to that."

Jim purses his lips. "I suppose I do, except...can you make me come with just your mind?"

"Truthfully, there is speculation about this amongst EPAS employees?" Spock sounds kind of appalled and intrigued at the same time.

"EPAS be damned. Try the whole Federation."

"You are exaggerating."

"Well, what do you guys expect? You walk around so uptight all the time and then take your fine selves off into the desert to have kinky telepathic marathon sex every seven years. That's bound to get people talking."

Spock opens his mouth and then shuts it again. " _Pon farr_ is no joking matter," he manages finally.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Jim boggles. "It's only the biggest evolutionary punch line of all time."

Spock attempts to look stern, but fails utterly. "What else do people say?"

"Well, there's the ears," Jim explains, settling against Spock's body for better access. "Supposedly an erogenous zone."

He lies there for a time, allowing Jim to kiss and gently bite his ear before he pulls away. "I apologize for any disappointment, but no."

"Okay, hands," Jim redirects.

"Hands?"

"Let's have them."

Obediently, Spock offers his right hand. The elegant fingers lie relaxed on his chest awaiting Jim's next move. The scars on them are fainter now, but still visible. Jim lifts it in one of his own, gripping the palm to bring Spock's fingertips to his mouth. Gently, teasingly, he trails his lips along the knuckles. When Spock says nothing, just watches, he grows bolder and takes the tip of his index and middle finger into his mouth, swirling over them with his tongue.

And there it is.

Jim's eyes widen in disbelief as a green flush washes over Spock's face. "Sonofabitch," Jim pronounces in a revelatory way.

Spock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in and out before opening them again. "If you only knew how obscene that gesture is amongst Vulcans, you would not find my response unexpected."

"So," says Jim, eyes locked on Spock's blown pupils. "Hand kink."

"It is not a 'kink' but rather a simple physiological response," he explains a little defensively. "Vulcan hands are more sensitive."

"I love it when you get all flustered," Jim confesses, rolling on top of him.

"I am hardly flustered."

Jim tucks Spock's fingertips in his mouth and then leans in to claim his lips as well, putting pay to that theory almost immediately.

"Just tell me one thing before we do this, because it's very awesome," Jim stalls, loving the way Spock is already just a little bit out of control.

"Yes?"

"Will this get me pregnant?"

Apparently, that is what it takes to finally make Spock laugh.

-:-

  
For the first time in his life, Bones walks onto the bridge of a spaceship with a spring in his step. He still thinks living in a tiny manufactured bubble surrounded by the utter hostility of deep space is the height of stupidity, and he still hates flying. But if he's going to die horribly out here, he couldn't wish for better company.

"This is a damn fool's errand," he growls anyway, mostly because that's what they all expect from him.

Spock has the center seat with Jim hovering over one shoulder. Uhura, Chekov and Scotty are crowded around. They all look up at McCoy's pronouncement of doom, but it's Spock who speaks.

"The probability of our success is..." he glances at Jim and obviously amends his decimal point perfect prediction to something more ambiguous, "...small but not negligible."

"Give them some time, Bones," Jim agrees. "You know how hard it was for us to get here, and not everybody got a free pass from President Wescott."

" _Ex-_ President Wescott," Ashe reminds them.

"Hey, don't harsh my man-crush!" Jim objects with a frown. "He'll be re-elected in no time, you just wait."

Everyone laughs except for Spock, but then one of Jim's hands comes to rest on the Captain's shoulder, affectionate and far too telling. McCoy expects Spock to ignore it or remove it, even knowing as much as he does about what lies between them. Instead, the Vulcan raises one of his own hands and pats Jim's lightly. It's not exactly demonstrative, but for a Vulcan it's kind of like a declaration of undying love.

Jim catches Spock's eye and grins. "They're coming," he insists, fingers tight on Spock's shoulder. "I _know_ they are."

Spock nods and turns back to the scanners. "We shall wait."

As Jim moves back to his own station, McCoy glances at the others as if to say, _you saw that right?_ All he gets from them are blank stares and innocent eyes. They haven't seen anything, no sir, and he realizes anew that they love Spock as much as Jim, despite, or maybe even because of his Vulcan demeanour. They trust him, and what's more they _like_ him just as he is. No revisions necessary.

Bones turns on his heel and stalks back to the turbolift. Ashe shoots him an amused expression so he makes sure he's scowling. However, it doesn't quite hide the smile that's threatening to overwhelm him, so he keeps his face downcast. "I'll be in sickbay, because god knows with you two in charge, _someone's_ going to need a doctor."

The doors swish shut behind him and he's deep in thought. He's pondering life aboard a ship where respect is more important than regulations, where the crew are loyal out of love rather than duty, and where there's more to each mission than acceptable losses and calculated risk. A ship where their Captain and First Officer are together and people don't just accept it, they're fiercely protective of it.

When he bumps into Chapel as the lift doors open, he forgives her startled squeak because it's not every day that Leonard McCoy, CMO of a renegade starship, picks you up and twirls you round before planting a big kiss on your cheek.

  
-:-

Back on the bridge, Jim's confidence isn't just a front, but even he is slightly concerned as the clock counts out the fifth full minute after the appointed rendezvous time. The constraints they suffered when disseminating the subspace message means they have no idea how many, if any, are intending to put in an appearance. Still, one glance at Spock, intently bent over the scanners, is enough to renew his confidence.

EPAS, Starfleet, the Federation - they all loved Spock once. He used to be their golden boy. His defection alone has to be enough to secure significant numbers for their movement. It's human nature to follow a strong leader, and Spock certainly has no competition on that front. When Admiral Pike left Starfleet for EPAS, he'd left a huge hole that had never really been filled. The Fleet is has remained like a headless corpse, still twitching but utterly purposeless. After the near destruction of Earth, the Federation has a new hero, and he has pointy ears. It was typical of Pike to capitalize on that momentum. Jim can understand the need, with the Council, F-Sec and the fleet crippled by in-fighting.

Jim glances around the shiny new bridge and feels a moment of fondness. They have half a galaxy to stitch back together, and Jim has no reason to be this optimistic.

Uhura straightens in her chair. "Captain..."

"On screen," Spock replies.

There's a burst of static and then Hikaru Sulu's smiling face resolves, ten feet tall and smiling.

"Captain Spock, Divisional Commander Kirk, fancy meeting you here."

Jim slams his fist down onto his console in triumph, and it's possible that Scotty dances a little jig. They may tease him about it later.

Spock stands and gives his shirt a little tug to straighten it. He steps calmly down the two steps to stand in front of the center seat. "It is most gratifying to see you, Captain Sulu. May I enquire as to your intentions?"

Hikaru's smile fades, fresh scars giving him age beyond his years. He fought at Aspera and again at Earth. "I intend to follow you, sir, and to assist in your efforts to defeat the remnants of Nero's fleet, and reunify the Federation." Behind him, several crewmembers step forward into view. They are a ragtag mix of Fleet coloured shirts and EPAS blacks. Some are even civilians. Sulu gestures around him with an open hand. "We're not much to look at, but we're manning a Constitution Class starship designated NCC-1657 _Potemkin,_ sir. She's an older model and not fully repaired, but she's got some fight left in her."

Spock opens his mouth to reply but another hail cuts him short.

Uhura presses a hand to her earpiece. "Another contact, bearing two hundred clicks starboard, z minus twenty, sir."

"Split screen," Spock orders.

Chekov appears flanked by two very shifty looking Vulcans.

"USS _Intrepid_ reporting for duty, sir!" the young Russian grins impishly, snapping off a very passable 'Fleet-style salute.

Spock half-raises a hand to return the gesture then stops himself, settling instead for his customary split-fingered greeting. The two Vulcans on the screen reciprocate swiftly. They seem young, even by human standards, let alone for a race so long-lived.

"I was lead to believe the _Intrepid_ has not yet been commissioned," Spock makes it a question with a twitch of one eyebrow.

Chekov's grin widens. "Yes, sir. That's right, sir," his eyes sparkle impishly. "These are some wery sneaky Wulcans, sir."

Spock's other eyebrow joins the first.

Jim smothers a smile with one hand, leaning an elbow on his console so that it looks a little more natural.

One of the _Intrepid's_ Vulcans steps forward and clears his throat in a very uncharacteristic show of nervousness. "We...appropriated the ship prior to the conclusion of warp drive testing, sir."

" _Appropriated?_ "

Jim thinks Spock sounds a little pained.

"Affirmative. It is the reason our arrival was delayed." There is a brief pause wherein the Vulcan realizes clarification is required. "Lieutenant Chekov advised us not to proceed at a speed greater than warp three on an untested drive, sir."

Spock does a brief mental assessment of the apparent seniority of Chekov and asks, "who is your highest ranking commissioned officer?"

"I am, sir," the same Vulcan replies. "Ensign Sanek."

"And the remaining crew compliment?"

"Three junior Ensigns, two hundred fifty six cadet volunteers, nineteen civilian scientists and one dishonorably discharged Admiral."

Jim and Spock exchange glances.

" _How_ many cadets?" Jim asks, his throat a little tight. When he signed up to rally the people, he hadn't expected them to be kids, for fuck's sake.

"Forget about the cadets," comes a new and instantly familiar voice. The perspective pans wide and narrows in on the new speaker. Christopher Pike is leaning heavily on the bridge railing and using his other hand to point right at Spock. "Your real problem is going to be with the F-Sec when they realise you've re-stolen their new flagship, Spock."

Perhaps Uhura and Scotty see the slight straightening of their Captain's shoulders, but only Jim sees the flicker of muscle in his jaw and can interpret it correctly.

"At your orders, Admiral." Spock's voice is conversational, slightly inflected, more expressive than usual. "A fact I am certain they will not overlook. Perhaps, however," he glances at Uhura who is making demanding motions at the communications display, "that issue can be debated at a later time."

"And a more distant quadrant!" Pike laughs and shakes his head. "By God, Spock, I never thought you'd go through with it, I really didn't."

He collects his hands in the small of his back and his voice is utterly devoid anything when he replies, "I regret causing you to doubt me, sir, but I needed to confirm that the existing administration is currently incapable of protecting the Federation. I could not act as I have without such assurance."

"Apology accepted."

Jim pushes upright and takes two quick steps to stand at Spock's shoulder. "Better to try fixing the system first, before writing it off all together, Admiral."

Pike's eyes stay the same intensity but his lips twitch. "That's a hell of a statement coming from you, Jim."

"EPAS was good for me, sir."

"Yeah, it was."

The pregnant pause is interrupted by a lone voice over the comm. _Enterprise, Enterprise, this is Andorian Battle Cruiser Siganau, our shields are down, our intentions are non-hostile, please respond..._

The first message is drowned out by another, and another, then a whole cascade of voices as ship after ship comes out of warp around them. They hover in place; a glinting array of familiar and alien vessels against the dark backdrop of deep space. Uhura is hard pressed to acknowledge them all and they start talking amongst themselves, passing the message, spreading the word.

Ashe frowns around the bridge. "So, are our clocks five minutes fast, or what?"

Her words generate a nervous chuckle on several ships over the interlinked comms.

Jim gives it a moment before he turns his back on the viewscreen and speaks for only Spock to hear. "What are your orders, Captain?"

"Our allies are greater in number than we anticipated," he observes, lips hardly moving.

"Yeah, it's a pretty fine turnout." Jim puts one hand on Spock's shoulder and squeezes. "What're you going to do with them?"

Spock turns to look at him, his dark eyes fierce. "I am going to do my best, with your assistance."

Jim nods, lets his hand fall, and turns to face the music.

\- NINE MONTHS, SEVEN DAYS SINCE THE BATTLE FOR EARTH -

Jim stows their overnight bags in the trunk and slaps it closed firmly. His worn, grey-with-age messenger bag goes in the back seat next to Spock’s folded overcoat. The sun is still high in the sky, determined to chase them with light as they embark upon their overland journey.

Spock emerges from the apartment perfectly on time. It’s finally warm enough in San Francisco that he’s dispensed with multiple layers, leaving only one long-sleeved henley. Jim takes a moment to admire the view as his partner secures the door. It’s been eight weeks since their scheduled shore leave began, six months since their official pardon and nearly ten since they risked everything to confront Nero.

And won.

Jim still has to remind himself of that, sometimes. They actually won.

As Spock approaches the car, he doesn’t question Jim’s smile, just responds with a small one of his own: a trademark quirk of the lips that seems to come more easily with every passing day. Jim feels his heart rate kick up a notch just as his stomach drops away a little, leaving him wondering whether their connection will ever seem commonplace. Spock is big on mental privacy, but as he circles the vehicle to assume the driver’s seat, his hand gently travels the length of Jim’s arm, a firm and grounding pressure that suggests he’s sensed just enough to know exactly what is needed.

Normally, Jim loves to drive, but today he’d rather pour himself into the comfortable passenger seat and kick his shoes off. The appearance of his bare feet on the dash earns him a long-suffering frown from Spock, but it’s worth it to feel the sun on his toes. He wiggles them for effect and Spock lets it pass, starting the car and deftly reversing into the street.

As they merge onto the freeway, Jim can feel some of the tension bleeding out of him. Rationally, his anxiety should increase as they speed towards their destination. Irrationally, this time, it seems to have an inverse relationship with every mile they clock. He takes a long swallow from his water bottle and reclines the chair a little more, letting his head rest against the window. For as long as he can remember, the thought of going home has haunted him like a bad taste, an illness he can’t cure. Any happy memories are tainted by that one moment, that sharp retort, the cold snap of recoil and the fiery smell of gunpowder.

The first overhead sign signalling their final interstate change flies past and Jim has to check his wrist in surprise, wondering whether he dozed off or simply spaced out. Spock glances at him, then back at the road.

“Do you require a rest stop?”

Jim smiles to himself, wondering if that’s a subtle way of asking if he needs to use the head. “Sure, why not? It’ll feel good to stretch my legs.”

Spock pulls into a service station and unfolds himself without a trace of stiffness. Their model of car doesn’t require refuelling, but that doesn’t stop him from circling the vehicle once to inspect it for undetected faults or damage. Once a Point, always a Point.

Jim gestures over his shoulder at the service counter. “Get you anything?”

“No.”

“Mind if I do?”

“It has been six hours since you last ate and we have a further two hours of travel. A small meal would be advisable.”

“Meet you by the tables,” Jim agrees, turning on his heel and jogging lightly over to the hot food stand whilst patting down his pockets for his identification.

Spock waits for him in the full glare of the afternoon sun, soaking it up like the desert creature he is. Jim heads over with his hands full of hamburger, the smell making his stomach rumble. Wordlessly, Spock rescues the bottled drink from the crook of Jim's elbow, setting it down on the table within easy reach.

As Jim takes a cautious bite of the piping hot burger, he knows that if Bones were around, he’d be bitching about cholesterol or something. Spock, who lives with him and knows how religiously he takes care of his body, says nothing. The freedom to enjoy things without guilt is another thing he’s never had with anyone else. It's a pleasure that extends from the sauce dripping over his fingers to the way he can take off on his motorbike without wondering if that’s okay. Spock is always there when he gets back, and if he’s not, there's a message in his inbox or a neatly lettered note on the kitchen bench. Once, and Jim swears it wasn’t an accident, Spock left him a haiku in magnetic letters on the refrigerator.

He smiles at the memory and the way Spock steals his drink, takes a swallow and recaps it before putting it back down on the bench.

“Want me to drive for a while?”

“You _are_ more familiar with the route,” Spock replies in that way he has of answering a question without really answering it at all.

Jim just nods clumsily, halfway through another bite. Surrounding conversation floats on the breeze, snippets of traffic information, demanding children and car radios to fill their comfortable silence. He’s always been a motor mouth, forever relying on conversation as a social buffer, but when it’s just the two of them he’s gradually getting better at simply being present. He's letting go of the need to perform.

Spock takes another drink and Jim balls up his paper wrapper, licking his fingers as he does so. “Just keep it. You know I hate ginger beer.”

"Indeed."

Jim slaps him on the shoulder and then laughs at the way Spock inspects the fabric for traces of hamburger. "Shut up, I licked it clean."

Spock just raises a very pointed eyebrow.

Flustered, Jim raises both his hands defensively. "That was one time, all right? _One time,_ and I said I was sorry."

Spock says nothing, just regards him with gentle humor.

"Oh, quit it," Jim sighs, turning away to hide his blush. "We need to hit the road if we're going to get there before sundown."

On the way back to the car, Spock rests his hand on the nape of Jim's neck; a warm, heavy weight and a brush of one thumb that conveys so much more than words ever could. Jim leans into it, rolling his head to brush his hair over Spock's knuckles. They slide apart easily around the car, swapping places so they both have to adjust the seats.

Jim pulls out smoothly onto the interstate and sails through the last few klicks into Riverside. The sun is just setting as they crunch along the old meandering driveway, and he supposes they could have used the transporter and arrived less fatigued, but there is something about the process of _getting here_ that's just as important to him as actually arriving.

He parks and engages the brake. "This could be a big mistake."

Spock turns to look at him. "Let us find out."

"Okay."

In unison, they exit the vehicle and begin to unpack their bags. When Jim looks up from shouldering his messenger bag, his mother is watching them from the porch.

"Hey," he acknowledges a little stiffly.

"Do you need a hand?" she calls back.

"No, we've got it."

She disappears back inside the house and Jim gives Spock a very pointed look. "This is about as welcoming as Delta Vega."

"I thought you agreed to attempt reconciliation?"

"And it's going brilliantly, don't you think?"

Spock lifts his eyes to the sky and trails them to the horizon. "I think it may rain tomorrow."

"You and the weather," Jim sighs. "I swear, you were born to be a corn farmer."

Spock declines to respond and they walk shoulder to shoulder in silence to the front door. Winona holds it open for them, pressing herself against the wall to let them pass. Jim can't help but glance around in surprise because the house has undergone a total transformation.

"I like what you've done with the place," he admits grudgingly.

Winona comes to stand with them, hands on her hips as she surveys her house with fresh eyes. "It's not bad, is it? I took out the center wall and opened the place up a bit. Upgrading the facilities was a must and we got a new kitchen because Peter loves to cook."

"What is he, eight and a half?" Jim raises his eyebrows. "Isn't that child labor?"

Winona laughs nervously and can't meet his eyes. Jim stumbles over his next words, trailing off into a mumble about stowing his bags in one of the guest rooms. She waves them on up the stairs, the memory of Frank still so powerful between them, even now. Jim's face descends into a frown and his jaw clenches. He sets about unpacking with entirely more force than is necessary until Spock's hands settle over his, pressing them down into the overnight bag.

"It will take practice," he says gently. "Most likely years of it."

Jim closes his eyes and focuses on the comfort flowing across their bond. "Remind me again why I'm doing this?" Spock only has to think of his own mother and Jim is instantly contrite, taking his hands and squeezing in apology. "You're right, of course you're right. This place just makes me crazy, is all."

"I suggest a shower," Spock says reasonably, "while I make 'small talk' with your mother."

As expected, Jim's face relaxes into a smirk. "You could sell tickets."

"I expect people would ask for a refund."

"Fine, I'll take a shower and chill the fuck out while you make nice with your mother-in-law," Jim sighs, but his bad mood has broken and both of them know it.

Half an hour later, when he's pink from the hot water and dressed in fresh jeans and a casual shirt, what he does _not_ expect to find is the house full of people. It's such as surprise that he pauses on the stairs with a stupid look on his face just in time for Bones to take an incriminating picture.

"Happy birthday, Jim," he drawls. "I feel a mission's worth of bribery coming on."

Jim lets himself be drawn into a confused embrace, staring over the doctor's shoulder to find Ashe, Hannity, Chekov and Uhura dotted amongst faces he barely remembers from childhood.

"My god," he screws up his face. " _Gary?_ "

The tall brunette in a plaid shirt steps forward, a beer awkwardly clutched in one hand. He glances down at it, then back up at Jim. "I didn't know what I was going to say, so I thought, you know, liquid courage." He laughs nervously.

Jim wants to come up with something reassuring, but his head is stuck way back in the past, drenched in the memory of telling Gary a little of what was going on at home and then having him freak the fuck out and never speak to him again. "Holy shit," is all he can think of. "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Gary nods, radiating tension. "Look, Jim, I'm going to suck at this but I've been waiting twenty years to say it so...I'm sorry, okay? I was young and stupid, and when they sent you to juvie, I..."

Jim grabs him by the shoulder as Gary's eyes fill with tears and he shoots the room at large an apologetic look but they've all busied themselves with other things, granting him at least the illusion of privacy. "Come on," he suggests. "Let's go outside."

Gary nods and follows eagerly.

When the screen door bangs behind them, Jim keeps walking until they're out by the old barn. There's still a low fence there that is just the right height for sitting on. He leans against it, arms folded and waits for Gary to join him. They'd been the best of friends once, thick as thieves, but Frank had taken that from him as well.

They talk for a long time, the two of them. Once the issue of Frank and Gary's guilt is dealt with, they talk about fishing in the river and playing war games in the fallow fields. They laugh over the time they convinced Margie Sullivan to show them her underwear and then laughed even harder at the detention it earned them. When the memories draw to a natural close, Jim digs the toe of his boot into the soil and takes a deep, calming breath.

"I don't blame you, Gary, but it seems to me you need me to say this, so...I forgive you."

Gary nods, eyes flooding again. "Thank you, Jim." He looks up, tears welling over. "All this time I've been angry at myself for failing you."

Something warm and calm wells up from the center of Jim's chest and he finds a smile at the ease of it. "You were just a fucking kid, Gary. Same as me."

"I know, but..."

"We were just kids," Jim presses.

"Yeah. _Jesus_."

The silence stretches and eventually Jim shifts, acutely aware that he's just walked out on his own surprise birthday party. "I better be getting back."

"Shit, yeah," Gary wipes his eyes. "Give me a minute, I'll be right behind you."

Jim is entirely unsurprised to find Spock waiting for him on the porch. He steps forwards as Jim climbs the steps and they meet in the shadows beside the door.

"Okay?" Spock asks.

"Yeah. You responsible for this?"

“In part.”

“Thought so.”

And that's all it takes between them these days.

Jim reenters the house and is kind of overwhelmed by all the smiles that turn his way. The solid presence of Spock at his side helps him to navigate the room. Every second face is someone from town and he can't get over how tentative they are, how embarrassed and apologetic. The younger people are better, people around Jim's own age who remember him as a bit of a hell raiser or a rebel. The ice is broken more easily there and Jim begins to suspect that he could actually live amongst these people if he had to. With time and a little bit of effort...maybe, eventually.

It's not until later in the night that the Vulcan contingent arrives. Sarek cites diplomatic engagements but Jim suspects they're just not as tolerant of barbecue as Spock is.

Jim greets his father-in-law with flawless Vulcan in the family accent, which causes his two aides to arch their brows. Jim hasn't had much to do with either of them, but he likely will in the future, so he plays nice and doesn't try to shock them too much.

Standing to one side, watching his bondmate's antics with amused tolerance, Spock does not realize there is someone beside him until he hears a voice.

"He is much like the James T. Kirk of my world," Prime observes, his voice rough but warm.

"In that he finds himself infinitely more amusing than he actually is?" Spock replies.

Prime huffs once under his breath. "In that, yes, but also in his bravery and his compassion. I trust you know what it would have cost him to come here tonight, to speak to these people, to stand in the same room."

Spock turns to look at his counterpart. "He is my _t'hy'la_ ," he says stiffly. "Of _course_ I know."

"Have you told him?"

"Clarify."

"Have you told him that he is _t'hy'la_ to you? Brother of your soul, friend of your heart?" Prime shifts stiffly, never completely healed from his torture aboard the _Narada_. "I only ask because human life is so short...over before you know it." He looks away wistfully. “In the blink of an eye."

"I am aware."

"Are you?" Prime is suddenly sharp as a tack, dark eyes implacable. "Because I saw what this town did to Jim, what Frank did to him. I was _there_ in the aftermath and I know that it is not enough that he feels it through the bond, he needs the words."

With that, the old Vulcan makes his way slowly over to Leonard McCoy, whose face lights up in a complicated mixture of fondness and exasperation at the sight of him. Spock does not understand his counterpart's fascination with the doctor, but he welcomes the old man's departure, whatever the reason.

When a newcomer takes his place, Spock is on the verge of excusing himself before he sees who it is.

"Captain Spock." Eli salutes him with a glass of water. "You look disturbed."

Spock glances back over at his counterpart. "Talking with oneself is unexpectedly dissatisfying," he comments. "I do not recommend it."

"He has a good heart," the youngster says, his tone laced with fondness. "However annoying he may be."

Spock arches an eyebrow at Eli's emotive language, but only gets one in return, which is no answer at all. "How goes your work at the Vulcan Science Academy?"

Eli nods. "Our progress is slow, but I am confident of an eventual breakthrough."

"And the topic of your research?"

The youngster stares out across the room as he replies. "Tachyon radiation amelioration. It is a highly specialized field, but I anticipate an increase in genetic illness, tumors and lymphomas in the upcoming decades, thanks to Nero's widespread use of Red Matter."

"I did not realize you were a doctor," Spock confesses, finding the revelation difficult to reconcile with Eli's age.

"I am not," he replies, then glances up with a small smile. "But I am a scientist. I also paint and play piano."

Spock doesn't know what to say to that, so Eli simply melts into the crowd, leaving him to think it over.

-:-

Around midnight, they all sing happy birthday and cut the cake. Jim holds out for a good twenty minutes and then disappears. Winona trails him all the way to the front gate.

He looks up when he hears her footsteps and she takes it as a blessing that he doesn't turn away.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey kiddo. It's getting cold out here, you want my jacket?"

"Nah," he shakes his head, turning back out to stare at the dirt road and the cornfields.

He looks so young in that moment but so old at the same time. It seems like only yesterday that he used to run riot in those fields, driving Frank crazy by trampling the tender young stalks. The memory of Frank drives a shiver down her spine and she shies away from any further reminiscing. Better to live in the here and now than get bogged down in the past.

"I'll come back, just give me a few minutes," he tells her, and there's an apology in it, if you know how to listen.

She chucks him on the shoulder, leaving him his personal space. "You take your time. I'll be here, whenever you're ready."

He looks up at that, catching her eye, holding it. "Yeah. That sounds good."

"Okay," Winona says, forcing it past the lump in her throat.

"Okay," he confirms.

She leaves him there in under the clear night sky, but when passing Spock on her way back to the house, she halts him with an outstretched hand. She knows better than to touch a Vulcan, but he stops regardless. By all rights he should hate her almost as much as Jim once did, but he doesn't. She can see it in his eyes. He's _hopeful_ for her, and she doesn't know whether she wants to hug him or slap his face.

"I am so glad, so very glad that he has you," she tells him instead.

For a moment he studies her, completely alien and unreadable, then he nods, just once, and continues on his way to Jim.

Winona figures that wasn't her worst parenting moment ever.

  
-:-

  
"Hey," Jim sighs, rolling to lean his shoulder blades against the gate instead of his chest. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to?" he tries hopefully.

Spock says nothing, just steps up into his personal space, buries hot fingers against his scalp and proceeds to kiss him within an inch of his life. Jim melts into it, slings his arms around Spock's shoulders and feels the warmth soak into him. They kiss until Jim's lips tingle and his heart is racing. When he goes back inside he's going to have a badass case of stubble burn, which everyone will notice, and Jim is totally okay with.

"What was that for?"

Spock's hands trail down to frame his face. Those eyes are solemn and warm at the same time, so deep and serious that Jim goes silent and just waits to see what will happen next.

"You are the bravest person I know," Spock tells him. "I aspire to have a fraction of your resilience and your ability to see the best in everyone around you. I cherish your warm-hearted gift of forgiveness, offered even to the most difficult people in your life, but most of all..." he pauses, lost in the moment. "I have a word to share with you."

"A Vulcan word?"

"Yes."

"Will I like it?"

"I hope so."

"Is it my birthday present?"

"In a way."

"Can I have it now?"

"Shhh," Spock laughs softly, moving both thumbs so that they cover Jim's lips. "You are ruining it."

Jim blinks up at him expectantly, obedient in his silence. Spock leans down until his lips are level with Jim's ear. He presses a kiss against the hollow beneath the lobe.

" _T'hy'la_."

-FIN-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to the_arc5 on livejournal, without whom, this fic would probably never have been finished. Your excellent editing, feedback and input made this a joy. You can find the original linked-through chapters and bonus materials here: http://triwislinthis.livejournal.com/tag/leave%20no%20soul%20behind
> 
> Soundtrack listing:  
> The Gossip - 2012  
> Jericco - Rujm (Pile of Stones)  
> Birds of Tokyo - Armour For Liars  
> Goldfrapp - On The Road to Somewhere  
> Trial Kennedy - The Great Escape  
> Andrew Bird - Fiery Crash  
> The Butterfly Effect - Before They Knew  
> Beck - Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime  
> Laura Marling - Failure  
> Gotye - Heart's a Mess  
> Betchadupa - Design  
> Joshua Radin - No Envy, No Fear  
> The Heavy - Doing Fine  
> Jericco - Always  
> The Shins - Black Wave  
> The New Amsterdams - All Our Vice  
> Laura Veirs - Where Gravity Is Dead  
> Calling All Cars - Disconnect  
> The Living End - Wake Up  
> Fink - Trouble's What You're In  
> Birds of Tokyo - Broken Bones  
> Fink - This Is The Thing  
> Birds of Tokyo - Wild Eyed Boy  
> Birds of Tokyo - Wayside  
> Kings of Leon - Pyro  
> Incubus - Oil and Water  
> Crowded House - People Are Like Suns (acoustic)  
> Augustana - Twenty Years  
> Silversun Pickups - Future Foe Scenarios  
> The Getaway Plan - Shadows  
> The Red Sun Band - Pavement  
> 30 Seconds to Mars - The Kill  
> Silversun Pickups - Waste It On  
> Stereophonics - Rewind
> 
> Buy from iTunes here: http://c.itunes.apple.com/au/imix/leave-no-soul-behind/id433117867

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Leave No Soul Behind | EPAS trailer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1619549) by [tiger_of_paper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_of_paper/pseuds/tiger_of_paper)




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